


Novus Dies

by klytaemnestra (klytae)



Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [13]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24653749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klytae/pseuds/klytaemnestra
Summary: There is a revolution forming, below the plate within the slums, and high inside this tower of glass and steel. Rufus plays them all save Tseng.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915873
Comments: 16
Kudos: 81





	Novus Dies

**Author's Note:**

> Playing loosely with past canon.

It is twilight by the time he arrives. Midgar slipping into a green tinged darkness, the electric dotted faux horizon of the plate nearly indistinguishable from what little of the star flecked sky is visible beyond the light pollution. He surveys the city from above, the destruction of Sector 1 and 8, and the void it has left on such a familiar skyline is a sobering reminder that this is no longer the city in which he left. Sent away under the guise of extended business in Junon, the city then had still held such hope, a glittering dream to those lucky enough to make it topside; he returns to a gaping, jagged, wounded place. The look on his face is too unpleasant to be a smile as it reflects back to him through the tinted glass. Damn that greedy old bastard, he thinks, as the helicopter makes its final descent to the twinkling lights of the Shinra building's landing pad.

Heidegger is there to greet him. 'Sir, President Shinra has requested your presence downstairs.' His gruff voice a buzzing annoyance as Rufus raises a half gloved hand to wave him off. He's never possessed the patience to deal with the sycophants his father surrounded himself with. They'd no sooner slit his throat to ensure their positions.

Darkstar growls threateningly at the Director of Public Safety. More feral than pet, the maligned creature was completely loyal to Rufus Shinra alone.

He moves past in a swish of perfectly tailored white sharkskin, words clipped. 'Wouldn't want to keep the old man waiting.' There's no disdain there simply a fact, well aware that any tardiness could be used against him.

There's luggage to be unloaded, trunks of finery, the Shinra heir having a penchant for the more superfluous things. He was nothing if not good at spending the monthly allowance afforded him. Best to make a show of it, it made the disappearance of funds into other activities less noticeable. Some casual dissent here, a bit of eco terrorism there, reactor codes leaked. He smiles wanly at the knowledge that AVALANCHE had been his once, a fledgling organization needing funding, and he their anonymous benefactor. It had earned him his sentence, but it brought him a bit of joy knowing they had become the proverbial thorn in his father's side. 

It's a short walk into the executive suite, seventy stories up. There's the soft lilt of opera. For all his father's ills, the man had always been a patron of the arts. Rufus' own late mother a star of the stage and silver screen, with a vibrant smile and glittering personality, the only woman the President might have ever loved. She'd been rushing home to see her young son, the reports all said, printed across glossy magazines and newspapers, when she was lost in a tragic helicopter accident in the mountains of Nibelheim. His father had never forgiven him for the alleged transgression. A weight he'd shouldered for years. Rufus had been barely twelve. He supposes some might argue it had been character building.

The President has a drink in hand. Bourbon from the looks of it, and Rufus can't be sure how many.

'Good to have you home, boy.' There are no genuine pleasantries between them, all affection lost when the President claps his hand against his shoulder. To call their relationship strained would be the greatest of understatements. Murderous, more apt, as if Rufus himself had not considered indirect patricide to rid him of an uncaring, thoughtless, and corrupt father.

It’s been only five years, not nearly long enough for either to forget. Rufus in a brazen act against his father and the company finding himself the anonymous benefactor to an upstart eco-terrorist organization, some funding here, a little dissent there. It had ended disastrously, Rufus temporarily held by the Turks before his father deemed it necessary to send him away to the military base of Junon. A prisoner in all but name, brought back to Midgar on occasion to keep the media from speculation, and to be used for PR.  
  
'Father.' The word sounds twisted on his tongue. Rufus had always been a disappointment. As a boy too sensitive, and into adulthood too frivolous, with a predilection for pursuits the President found unbecoming of his sole heir, while also maintaining a frigidly cold public facade that made media appearances often quite difficult. 

They stare at one another for one agonizing moment, something buzzing in the air high above the mako powered electricity. Rufus tightens his hand on Darkstar's lead, considering for the briefest of moments of letting the animal attack. It would take nothing more than a simple command.

Instead his father acquiesces. 'Have a drink.'

So, he is drunk. Delightful. 'No.' The word clipped, too harsh. Darkstar whines as if in warning. Rufus pauses, corrects. 'No, thank you. I'm tired.' Voice guarded, he can smell the liquor on him and knows it wouldn't do to publicly show his disdain, though it is a known fact that there is no love lost between father and son. He can feel it in the way that Heidegger lingers, just a few steps too close, as if waiting for Rufus to make a single misstep. He glances to the head of Public Safety, all pompous brute. The incompetent bloated leeches that eked away the lifeblood of Shinra. Things will be different once he’s calling the shots around here. Very different, indeed.

The President upturns the crystal, downing the remaining liquor in one burning gulp. 'Heidegger, see my son to his rooms.'

The man nods. 'Mr President.'

Rufus cuts blue eyes at him, as if he didn't know the way back to his apartment. He moves to leave with a barely concealed sigh, finding this all suddenly very tiresome indeed.

'I've not dismissed you.'

Rufus turns, face partially obscured in this light. 'No.'

'I want you in my office at 10 AM sharp.'

'Yes.'

'Yes, what?'

'Yes, Sir.' Rufus hisses, already making his retreat, his dog close at his side. It’s a short walk down red carpeted stairs to the sixty-ninth floor, dark marble floors and columns gleaming in the evening lights.

The halls on this floor are deserted, none but the highest echelon of Shinra employees having access to the upper levels. Even the cleaning staff personally vetted and performing their duties under extreme scrutiny. Rufus always found it tiresome, locked down within a glass prison, only to be transferred to another type of cell on the shores of Junon--'for his own safety' Heidegger had suggested once--where he's remained a puppet prince to an Empire his father likely never has intended to allow him to inherit.

A quick swipe of a key card, and the door’s vacuum seal hisses open.

'No place like home.' Heidegger clamps his hand against Rufus' shoulder a little too roughly to be considered anything less than a threat. He'd crossed his father and his advisors once and failed.

He waits until he hears Heidegger's slightly mocking laughter fade down the corridor before entering. One day, he thinks, one day soon he'll change things.

His rooms are situated along the eastern side of the building, washing the room in unflattering grey shadows as twilight fades into night. But there is a beauty in the way the mako reactors light up the darkening sky, the floor to ceiling glass of the exterior walls providing a near unparalleled view of Midgar.

'Lights.' Rufus commands, and the apartment softly buzzes to life, recessed lighting illuminating the polished white tile floor and dark lacquered shelves. None of the garish red velvets his father so loved. Everything sleek, white, and black angular lines gleaming in their art deco opulence.

Moments before he knows this place had been a flurry of staff, hastily making the final arrangements for his arrival. Luggage unpacked, flowers rearranged on side tables--white lilies, a rarity in Midgar, for only the best would do for the son of the President. He found the flowers cloyingly sweet and smelling of decay, a testament to the rotting, festering empire his father now presided over.

But now he is alone. He exhales as if for the first time since stepping off the helicopter able to breathe, discards his trenchcoat in a careless drape of white across the sofa and crosses the room.

There's a cocktail left at the bar, waiting neatly on top of a small napkin, a tiny scrawled, 'Welcome Home' written across it. Rufus smiles wanly. To the left sits an unopened file stamped with the Shinra seal. He knows well enough it contains a report of the recent reactor bombing and subsequent collapse, something left for the sake of protocol to get the President's son up to speed on current affairs.

Plucking the drink between elegant fingers, he takes a sip, swirling brandy and bitters along his tongue, and orders the dog to lay down. She obediently lopes away, tags jangling, to settle on the rug.

Rufus thumbs through the file, photos detailing the bombing, the presumed suspects, AVALANCHE, the President already planning his countermeasures without having consulted his opinion. 'Typical.' He breathes with a flippant toss of his head, light eyes set intently on the city below.

It is here that Tseng finds him. The imposing form of the leader of the Turks hovering just outside the doorway. 'I'd heard you'd arrived, Rufus.' His voice pauses, falters for a moment. 'Sir.'

It's been 9 weeks since he'd last stood in the Turk's company. The report slips forgotten from his hand, and he crosses the space between them. He winds his fingers into the dark fall of hair, pulling Tseng close.

They kiss there in the dark. Rufus tastes of brandy, bitters, and citrus, mouth opening beneath Tseng's.

They part with a shared breath, still holding one another, as if afraid of letting go. They kiss again, this time deeper, hips pressed together with a longing and desire. Rufus withdraws with a gasp, pale cheeks flushed. 

Tseng hand lingers on the small of Rufus' back, a reassurance that he is, indeed, here. 'Welcome home.' For the first time since his arrival, the sentiment is genuine, though he now reverts back to protocol with a slight respectful nod. 'The President felt it necessary to call you back.'

The sound Rufus makes isn't quite a laugh, too brittle. 'We both know that's a lie.'

He's seen his father only a handful of times in recent years. Though a cursory video call had been routine during his first months in exile. To keep an eye on him. As the years stretched on, Rufus' only interaction came from the company's Turks. Sometimes Reno or Rude, but most often the leader of the Turks would go, insisting that someone of his rank was needed to follow proper protocol. Exiled prince or not, Rufus was still the sole heir to the Shinra Corporation.

'The old bastard is up to something.' He is certain. Oh and he's made his own arrangements, just in case.

'We've not heard anything.' Suggesting that if the Turks didn't know, then the probability was low.

'We'll see.'

'You've not been engaging in your, shall we say, conflicting interests?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Tseng knows a lie when he hears it, but it doesn't matter if he believes the lie, so long as everyone else does.

It's been five years since AVALANCHE had made an attempt on the President's life, the official reports the result of a tactful PR campaign, Rufus Shinra sent away on business. But Tseng knows the schemes had not been put aside. Rufus was biding his time, waiting until it was fit to strike.

Tseng's hand lingers at the cuff of Rufus' jacket, gloved fingertips brushing the pale skin exposed at his wrist. The layers were a defense mechanism, but here in the confines of his apartment, Rufus allows those defenses to slip away.

'I've missed you.' It's barely more than a whisper, breathed out as a sigh.

Lips find the nape of Rufus' neck in a wordless answer. Tseng's hand drifting lower still, to rest against the sharp of his hip.

Rufus downs the remainder of his drink. In another time, they'd already have found themselves in a tangle of clothing and limbs on the floor, but now that Rufus is home, things will require a bit more discretion, and as much as he wants this, he wants a shower first, to be out of these clothes, and into something less constraining. It had been a long day, afterall, and he was not lying when he’d told his father that he had been tired. It was a weariness he was unused to, being brought back here under such scrutiny, knowing that he might yet have another chance at toppling his father’s regime. It would require timing, and a patience he has honed over these past years with Tseng’s subtle guidance.

'I'm going to shower.'

Tseng nods just barely, eyes lingering on his slender form for a long moment as Rufus disappears into the adjacent room. 

He pours himself a bourbon, neat. Rufus rarely drank the stuff, preferring endless champagne, and expensive cognac. He smiles faintly along the rim of fine cut crystal, and takes a long sip of the amber liquor, savouring it, waiting. Patience was perhaps a Turk's greatest virtue, but even he had his limits.

Visits to Midgar had been few in recent years, Rufus only called back home to maintain the charade that he had some role within the corporation. Junon had given a luxury not afforded them here within the walls of the Shinra building, lines between Vice President and Turk blurring, they'd fallen into a comfortable familiarity. Rufus was aloof, his affection and emotions stunted, but Tseng had found that suited him well. It made a seemingly difficult relationship somewhat uncomplicated most of the time. But it had been too long, indeed.

The lights are low in the room when Rufus emerges some time later clad only in a white robe, damp hair slicked back, and smelling of bergamot, subtle incense, and rosemary. He stares across the room at Tseng with a look that would be nearly unreadable were Tseng not intimately familiar with its meaning. What the night held. 

A coupe of champagne fizzing around a tiny sugar cube finds itself into Rufus' hand. 'To your return, Sir.' Tseng always did know his particular vices.

A tiny clink of crystal as they toast, the alcohol a tingling mixture of bitters, and cognac swirling against his tongue.

Tseng nuzzles into the damp hair along the nape of his neck, breathing in the scent of expensive shampoo. It came from a boutique in Sector 6 that boasted a 400 year tradition hailing from the seaside near Costa del Sol. It was like sunlight amid the near perpetual gloom of Midgar. 

Rufus leans back into the touch, eyes fluttering shut, as he takes another sip of his cocktail.

Lips find an ear, 'I think you've been away too long.'

Yes, he has.

'I've missed you, so.' It is an uncommon admittance he's uttered twice tonight. Light eyes lock onto Tseng's, as he turns to face him. Their lips touch, Tseng tastes of alcohol and oak, the burn of it lingering still. He moans as Tseng pulls him closer, hip to hip, a thigh moving between his legs, both hard with want. The silken robe leaves little to the imagination, and Tseng takes this moment to enjoy the view before him, as Rufus slides away.

His movements are swift, Rufus' hand flat against Tseng's chest as he shoves him onto the sofa, climbing atop to straddle slim hips as he kisses him once more. Tseng’s hand goes slack around his glass, allowing Rufus to take it from him, setting it aside.

Rufus is on his knees then, intentions clear as he tugs at the zipper on Tseng's perfectly tailored trousers. He takes his cock in his hand, stroking him to full hardness, and leans forward.

Tseng's breath hitches as Rufus' mouth closes around him, fingers threading through silk fine hair. He takes satisfaction in knowing he alone has this. Rufus is too cold, too distant, and distrusting to allow anyone else to have him. His glacial defenses yielded only to Tseng's touch. He thrusts into the warmth that surrounds him.

Rufus stares up at Tseng, beneath the fall of hair, long lashes fluttering as he relaxes his throat to take him deeper still. Tseng gasps, hand holding the nape of his lover's fragile neck, fingers feeling along each vertebrae, and increases his pace knowing Rufus has developed a skill for this particular act. He looks down at the wanton display before him, Rufus, heir to the planet, worshipping his cock.

He sighs Rufus' name, feeling his impending climax. The sweetness found between those lips is simply too much, as the pleasure coils tight within him, and explodes in a moment of white hot pleasure.

Rufus withdraws with a small intake of breath, lips wet and parted. He reaches for the glass of forgotten liquor, and takes a sip, alcohol burning away any lingering taste of the Turk. He stands after a moment, discreetly wipes a finger against the side of his mouth. 'I'm tired.' It's neither an invitation nor a dismissal, just a stated fact.

The Turk regards him with dark eyes, breathing just slightly elevated as his heart rate slows. This isn’t over. As generous as he might be with pleasuring Tseng, he knows Rufus is still hard, aching for his own release.

Tseng rises from the sofa, pulling him close. 'What do you want?' Tseng's breath hot against the shell of his ear, hand sliding beneath the silken robe and taking his lover within his grip.

'You.' Rufus bites his lip and thrusts. He would very much like the Turk inside him, while pinned to the wall, or bent across the nearest stable surface, but it's been too long, deft hands already working him to his release. Tseng has always known how to best make him come undone and quickly too for time had not always been a luxury. Tseng’s lips against his neck, hand stroking him faster, as the other takes his jaw, tilting Rufus toward him so that he might look into those blue eyes, pupils blown with pleasure, so see his face as he comes undone. They kiss again, all teeth and tongue, no time left for patience or discretion. Rufus braces himself against his Turk, hands clinging on now as he breaks from their kiss breathless. 

It is too much.

Rufus makes a choked whine high in his throat, and comes, head falling to rest against Tseng's shoulder, as he shudders his release. Tseng takes his time to steady him, lips against his cheek and corner of his mouth, as Rufus slumps against the cool glass, blue eyes staring up at the ceiling above as he tries to collect himself.

Things between them have always been a bit intense.

They lay curled together in darkness some while later. Rufus is still in his robe, complaining that the bed was too cold even with Tseng in it. Sheets draped around silk clad shoulders as Rufus rests against Tseng's chest, drifting ever so slightly while his Turk threads fingers through his hair.

There's the familiar chime of Tseng's PHS.

Rufus looks up. 'Hn, who dares disrupt us. They all should know you had a very important meeting. One that might last all night long.'

Tseng turns the screen to Rufus. One very brief text message from Rude. 'I've been staying with him.'

'Why?' It's a genuine question that most certainly has an interesting answer. 

'I'm afraid sector 8 is a bit uninhabitable at the present.'

Rufus had not considered the probability that Tseng's townhome, with its brick stoop, and perfectly manicured front garden, might have been lost in the explosion.

Never a particularly sentimental man when it came to material things, the Turk had simply chosen not to mention it. His home was here, within the steel and glass walls of the Shinra building, or more importantly, wherever Rufus Shinra deemed it so.

Rufus wears an expression that can only be described as conspiratorial. 

'What's that face?'

Rufus looks up through long dark lashes, feigning an innocence unbefitting. 'I was thinking you could stay here.'

The look Tseng regards him with seems doubtful. 

'Move in with me. At least until this settles.' No one would question the Turk's presence, and Rufus finds a small thrill in the prospect of this development, grudgingly admitting that he longs for some normalcy in their relationship. Other couples are free to publicly show their affection. It's been years of waiting and anticipation, want and need. And above all else, Rufus desires his companionship even if he will not voice that desire. 

'Do you think that wise, Sir?'

Rufus rolls his eyes. So it's sir again.

'I'll order it for my safety.' A small shadow of a smile. 'If you refuse.'

There it is, the scheming Shinra heir he's known. It's endearing now.

Rufus snuggles closer. 'I'm cold.'

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


Morning brings with it new activities. Rufus pinned down to the mattress while his Turk drives into him at a frenzied pace. If he has to see his father again at least he'll do it knowing Tseng fucked him properly.

Tseng clamps a hand over Rufus' mouth. In the past he'd revelled in the sounds his movements could elicit, but the Shinra building walls weren't known for being particularly soundproof. It made it easier for spying, to root out any dissension or conspirators. And while one might dismiss the sounds simply as the spoiled rich son of the President having a morning bout with some pretty socialite, Tseng preferred to keep that aspect of Rufus' life free from sordid gossip, if not speculation as to why the world's most eligible bachelor appeared to have no interest or attachments to any of Midgar's well bred and connected ladies.

There were whispers, of course. Amid middle management, lower level administrators, those who'd only seen Rufus as a glimpse of couture white suits sliding into an elevator. The tabloids were less kind, and despite Rufus' insistence that their lurid articles were insipid drivel, he knew at times the words stung.

But this was Midgar. Rufus was equally glamorous, if cold, celebrity, and feared spectacle.

But the man beneath the facade is his. His pace quickens, free hand working Rufus toward his release. A few sharp thrusts, warmth spilling against his hands, and inside his lover. His movements still, the hand clamped around Rufus' mouth sliding away as they both collapse breathless onto the bed.

Tseng presses a kiss to his shoulder as he withdraws, breath warm as his murmurs, 'As much as I'd dearly prefer to have you this way all morning, we should hurry.' It wouldn't do to be late.

'I'm sure he'll just add it to my list of deficiencies.'

'Sir.' Gone is the lover in that moment. For all their intimacy, Tseng still respects who Rufus Shinra is within the hierarchy. 

Rufus waves him off, rolling away from where they lay tangled together, an errant hand smoothing through tousled hair. 'Daddy's great disappointment.'

Tseng knows it hurts, for all his condescension and disdain of his father, it's left a tear within Rufus' being that Tseng fears will never be mended.

>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


By the time Rufus is finished dressing for the day, his mood has soured. It was always unpleasant business dealing with his father, but blessedly in recent years those meetings usually involved 200 miles of distance between the two. It was easy to maintain the facade of a dutiful, repentant son when the rare conversation had taken place across a video screen. For what he had lacked in true remorse, Tseng had made up for in his reports on how time in Junon had served him well. An in-office meeting was something, entirely, different. 

Most of Shinra’s dealings took place after noon, the upper echelon renowned for their late hours, and even later habits. Only Heidegger seemed to keep a schedule, possibly to maintain a facade of some militaristic past, as if he’d not risen to the rank quietly selling arms to Shinra nearly 4 decades before, and in all Tseng’s time here he could barely recall a time when he’d see Scarlet before 11 AM. As for Palmer, having the man enter the office before late afternoon was unheard of. But for his son, the President demanded punctuality, each minute wasted another perceived character flaw.

It's a quarter before nine when they arrive, Rufus irritable, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, and Tseng two steps behind and to his right.

'What did you need?' His tone is glacial if a bit petulant.

The President looks up from the files on his desk, eyes the same frigid colour meeting his son's. 'You'll use a better tone of voice with me.'

Rufus’ eyes narrow as if to challenge his father. 'If you insist.'

The old man bristles, noticing for the first time Rufus has not come alone, Tseng a somewhat menacing shadow at his back. He makes a small sound of displeasure, fingers suddenly drumming impatiently against the smooth lacquered desk. 'Tseng, I'm certain you're needed elsewhere.'

  
'If it concerns my safety, I'd prefer he stay.'

Tseng knows Rufus’ insistence has nothing to do with safety. He's a buffer against any verbal abuse. The President had no qualms humiliating his son in front of his board, but Tseng, with his Shinra issued peacemaker discreetly hidden beneath a perfectly tailored suit, possessing intimate knowledge on how to efficiently kill a man in various unique ways using only his hands, was another matter. The Turks were killers, on his payroll yes, but the President would have to be blind to not know where Tseng's loyalty lies. 

The President appears to briefly consider pressing the matter. While his orders within Shinra were infallible, the Turks were … complicated. Even Heidegger, to whom they answered, stuck to a rather hands off approach when managing the Department of Administrative Research.

The President settles his hands atop his desk, as if to signal he was quite finished with this particular contentious discourse. The smile on his face is a loathsome thing. 'I'm hosting a gala tonight.’ 

So not some false concern over a perceived threat. Rufus doesn’t know if he could have kept from laughing mirthlessly in his father’s face. Whenever had his father been concerned about his well being. Instead, one of his father’s garish parties, where Rufus was thrown into the glitz as a distraction. How typical.

‘We need to show ourselves as strong, unaffected by these recent terrorist attacks. I want you there smiling and socializing, 'The Future of Shinra'.'

Rufus can barely mask his disgust at the lies. As if the old bastard thought of him as anything more than a liability and a threat. The parties, the photographs, the illusion of the power denied him, it nearly sickened him now. At one time any reprieve had been a welcome one, but he had come to understand what it had all meant. ‘I’d rather not be trotted out like some parade chocobo tonight.’ 

'You'll play your part, or I'll see you regret it.' He has proven himself quite capable of making Rufus' life unpleasant, if not wholly unbearable.

Rufus thinks to Tseng. If his father sends him away again it would not be to Junon's rocky coast. Locked away under complete house arrest indefinitely, perhaps Nibelheim or the northernmost continent, or worse yet here, cut off from all social life, imprisoned within glass and steel, nothing but the changing gloom of Midgar to keep him company. 

He can feel Tseng’s eyes boring into the back of his skull as if to ask why he had to make everything so very difficult, and sighs. 'Yes.'

'Yes, what?'

'Yes, Sir. Mr President, Sir.' Rufus bites back. 'Wouldn't want to ruin your gala.'

'I expect you there at 8 PM.' He wags his forefinger at his son, before adding. 'And I expect you to find yourself a suitable match among the ladies. This playboy life ends, or whatever it is you're doing.'

Rufus' jaw clenches. 'I think you know.'

The tension is suddenly palpable. Father, son, eyes locked once more in a deadly stare, and Tseng unreadable as he in that moment imagines gloved hands throttling the President in his desk chair, duty and protocol be damned.

  
That same hideous smile returns, coloured with disapproval. 'Oh yes, but you will give me an heir if nothing else. I can't risk banking on you to lead Shinra.'

'Of course not.' Defiant to a fault, having had enough of this farce when a simple calendar invite could have sufficed.  
  
Tseng coughs politely into one gloved hand.

It’s as good a signal as any, the President waving his son off the barest of seconds later. 

Rufus turns with a sigh, stalks past Tseng. His entire being crippled by a few short moments in his father's presence. Tseng is a step behind him, hand catching on the sleeve of his suit coat once they’re both out of sight of the President’s prying eyes. 'He shouldn't speak to you that way.'

'I know! I know that, for god's sake.' Rufus jerks around then to face Tseng, blue eyes suddenly too bright. The rumours that Rufus never cried, Tseng knows are a lie. 

Rufus swallows around the painful knot in his throat. 'I hate him. I hate him so much, Tseng. I thought I could free myself of him, but now …'

'Let's get you back.' His hand is a reassuring weight against the small of Rufus' back as he guides him back to his apartment. From a distance it might look as if the touch did not overstep the bounds of protocol. That they are merely Vice President and Turk.

Darkstar is waiting just beyond the door, tail wagging happily at their return. As if sensing her master’s mood, the canine lets out a high pitched whine, tail lowering, and obediently settles at Rufus' side. He pets her head, fingertips lingering a bit too long in spots, as he stares out the window into the horizon beyond. 'I want to be alone.' 

Tseng nods, knowing Rufus. Some moments required a certain privacy.

'I'll be back up in an hour. If you want to blow off some steam training.' He squeezes Rufus' shoulder. 'And if you'd like to join me for lunch, I'm certain we could make reservations someplace. Just us.' A simple phone call and Tseng could clear out an entire afternoon for them, drinks and the finest culinary experience the Upper Plate could provide.

'Thank you, Tseng.'

'Of course, Sir.'

It isn't until Tseng leaves that Rufus feels the unbidden sting of tears. He scowls in anger and choking them down. No. He refuses to let his father have something reserved only ever for Tseng.

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


Junon is in a state of glowing perpetual smog, an effect of the Mako reactors combined with the marine haze. Evening seems to set it aflame, a glowing ember set along a rocky coastline. It had long been Midgar's first defense from invading forces, a military base, shipyard, airship landing, and barracks.

It is here that Rufus Shinra, heir apparent to the family business, is to be exiled.

An act against the President, terrorists funded with Shinra money, at least two Turks presumably dead, a few others defectors. He's fortunate to have escaped with his life, but it would be a difficult thing indeed for even the President to justify killing his only legitimate son. And so imprisonment, 200 miles away from home, to be kept under house arrest aside from when his presence was required in Midgar to maintain the charade. 

Tseng is there, given the grim task of leaving the man he called his lover alone on the tarmac.

'Don't do this.' Rufus pleads. 'Run away with me.' He breathes when he pulls him close. 'Or help me overthrow him.'

Tseng withdraws, looks at the face of the man he knows he loves more than himself, than life itself, places hands on fragile shoulders. 'One day it will be yours.' He kisses him then, against the crimson horizon uncaring that anyone might see, hand lingering on Rufus' face, knowing in that moment that he will never not miss this. Even if he takes other lovers, he will never not miss the one man who'd nearly broken him. He kisses him again, all the longing, and lancing regret poured into it. 'Forgive me.'

'I should hate you.'

'Yes.'

'I don't.' Could never.

Tseng lingers for a moment, gloved thumb tracing an ungentle line along Rufus' parted lips. 'Midgar will still be there.'

Perhaps it's a trick of the light, but in that moment he thinks he sees tears glittering against Rufus' dark lashes, and he knows he can't do this. For all his loyalty, if he were to see Rufus rumoured to never bleed or cry or do anything human for that matter, he could not leave him here. So he turns away into the blinding glow of the fading sun, to return to his duty, his loyalties, knowing he's broken two hearts.

Rufus stands alone and watches as one of the few people he's ever thought might have cared abandons him. The Shinra helicopter lifts in a controlled ascent, the sudden artificial wind whipping Rufus' blonde hair and trenchcoat; the burning sting in his eyes has nothing to do with the dust. Until this moment, foolishly thinking he'd still have a chance at winning, at overthrowing his father, the Turks at his side. Tseng. Throat seizing, he wonders if this is what dying feels like. 

There are guards now led by an officer to see to his transition, to lock him away in a gilded cage.

Rufus is escorted with all the protocol and respect owed to him. Prisoner or not, he is still the son of the most powerful man on the planet. His rooms are reserved for only the highest ranking of military commanders, refurbished in a style reminiscent of Midgar, with large windows overlooking the sea, set atop the cliffside.

'Sir, if you please.' The officer to his left steps aside, granting him access to the walls that would prove as good a prison as any cell. The accommodations are luxurious, perhaps not quite the finery of his apartment inside the Shinra building, but it had every comfort one might desire.

'If you require anything …'

He raises a gloved hand to halt further conversation. 'Leave me.'

The door slides shut, lock engaging as a reminder that he is, indeed, a prisoner. He waits until the sound of bootsteps disappear down the corridor before sliding to the floor. He's angry, suffocating beneath the weight of loss, defeat, hopelessness. His home, city, ambitions, and Tseng, Tseng, Tseng. He buries his face into his knees as the choking sobs wrack his form.

Rufus weeps for 2 days, alone in the shadows, ceasing only to snarl obscenities at the well meaning guards at his door sent to ensure his safety twice a day. A dead heir was far worse PR than a traitorous one. When it is over, he feels nothing. The icy facade impenetrable. And he determines in those days that he will never cry for anything or anyone again.

When Tseng finally comes to him again months later, Rufus is a shell. The vibrant young man he thought he most surely loved once, replaced by someone brittle, distant. No longer gleaming white, but mourning black that leeches the colour from his face, smaller, thinner than he remembers, eyes shadowed with a sleeplessness. His heart twists because he helped create this. An unloved son left forgotten. He leaves Junon with an unspeakable guilt, and sends Reno or Rude instead, unable to face him. 

It's not until Reno returns home looking like he's seen a ghost, threatened by an angry Rufus Shinra with a shotgun. When asked if Reno thought he intended to shoot Reno or himself, the redheaded Turk couldn't be for certain and hadn't stuck around to find out. 'He's all yours, boss. Something's broke in that kid, and it's way above my pay grade.'

The flight to Junon is an uncommonly long one, Tseng mentally preparing himself to face what he'd left behind nearly a year prior. It's night by the time he arrives. There are guards as always, keeping watch, they say nothing as the leader of the Turks passes. He has a key card to Rufus' rooms, he knocks but doesn't wait for an answer. 

There in the darkness he finds Rufus, curled on his sofa, staring off into the distance across the dark watery horizon, a tumbler gripped in his hand.

'Sir.' He begins cautiously.

Rufus turns then, face partially illuminated by the lights of the shipyard. 'What are you doing here? Can't you just leave me alone.'

'No Sir, I cannot.'

The glass in Rufus' hand explodes into shards of crystal meer inches from his head. The heir had always been rather a deadly shot.

'Come to spy on me for my old man?'

'I wouldn't, Sir.'

Rufus stands, stalks over to Tseng, two inches taller and in this light deadly menacing, cheeks hollowed, blonde hair tumbling over icy blue eyes as he carefully enunciates the words. 'Then leave me alone.'

'It's my duty as a Turk to ensure you don't harm yourself.' He braces himself, for what he isn't sure. Rufus had never been particularly prone to violence even in his anger, the occasional thrown glass aside. 

'And give the old bastard the satisfaction?' His voice weary, so changed from what Tseng remembers. 

'Rufus.'

'Sir.' He corrects, shrinking away into the shadows. 'Don't call me that.'

'There's nothing I can say or do to repair this.' Tseng pauses, stricken at his loss of words, at this, that he allowed things to get so out of control. 'When I say I am sorry … gods, I am so very sorry.'

'Just go.'

Tseng feels for the light then, suddenly bathing the room in a soft warm glow. Rufus turns away, as if burned by it. A crease forms between Tseng's brow as he looks at Rufus now in the light. He's as fastidiously groomed as ever, but it looks like he's not slept in weeks, pallor near ashen, his face gaunt. And Tseng feels as if his heart is breaking once more.

The heir to the most powerful corporation on the planet, wasting away here in Junon. 

Rufus stares at him in defiance. 

'Gods forgive me. Rufus. Sir. Please.'

'You left me.' 

He had. It was unforgivable, if only he had known …

'If you'll allow me. It will never happen again, Sir.'

There is no repairing what is done. No kiss and make up. It will take time.

He makes sure Rufus sleeps that night, waiting until he drifted before retreating to the sofa to sit alone in the dark to dwell upon their shared sins.

Tseng reports back to Midgar requesting additional time in Junon, staying close but never imposing. There's a strange normalcy to it all even if Rufus remains distant, he's not unkind, seeming to enjoy the company if nothing else. Long walks along the docks, Rufus breathing in the sea air after what Tseng suspects were months indoors.

When he's called back to Midgar, he promises he'll return, as quickly as his schedule allows.

It's his 3rd visit in 8 weeks. Tseng's brought back caviar and champagne at Rufus' behest, and the expensive cologne he so dearly loves, pretending he's back in his gilded tower for a moment. They talk quietly. Rufus always seems quiet now the bitter anger has dissipated. But his pallor has returned, and his eyes seem more alive.

Rufus is on his 5th glass of champagne when he leans over to nuzzle at Tseng, head listing ever so slightly. 'I've missed you.'

Tseng pulls away, eyes dark as he stares back at Rufus. 'You're drunk.'

'Hn, maybe.' He considers, shifting closer. 'Kiss me, Tseng.'

'I'm not going to kiss you.' He tips Rufus' chin so their eyes meet. 'If you want this tomorrow when you're sober. Yes. I'll kiss you.' He smiles at that, adding warmly. 'I've dearly wanted to.'

Rufus stretches out then, like some lazy feline, blonde head resting in Tseng's lap. 'Then at least put those hands to good use.'

Tseng does, threading slender fingers through silken strands of ashen gold. Rufus makes a soft contented sound, and closes his eyes. And Tseng feels a low ache in his heart knowing that he'd willingly given this up. To dare to have a second chance, he would love Rufus without fear or doubt of their shared consequences.

Weeks turn into months. Tseng returning as often as his own position allows. And in time, the severity of Rufus' incarceration lessens. Guards no longer watch his every move--after all, Shinra's spy was there to keep a watchful eye. The model heir, Tseng reports back in carefully worded statements of Rufus Shinra's isolation having done him good. And he is, to an extent. Tseng knows there's scheming there, occasionally a few Shinra funds missing from low security accounts that no one but he sees during auditing. The half truths are easy. His loyalty is to Shinra, even if that loyalty belongs to a Shinra of their own making.

Rufus is called home to Midgar for the winter holidays, though he and Tseng escape to Icicle Inn in time for the new year. There are galas, and operas, public functions in which the President delegates unimportant tasks. Rufus is seen well dressed, all polite smiles, and waves, ducking into limousines, or socializing at exclusive events. He's officially recognized as Vice President. Powerless, but visible, well liked in a way his father is not, even if there is something about his presence that is all a bit frightening, rarely without a Turk at his side. 

August is spent in Costa del Sol, Tseng suggesting the resort town as a respite from the oppressive summer heat of Junon. Rufus develops a subtle healthy glow from the sunny shores, reclining beneath poolside cabanas while sipping cocktails.

'I wonder what it's like to just be like this.' He voices one afternoon, languidly draped alongside the pool in a rattan chaise, just the two of them. 'I finally got you out of that suit, you know.'

There had been ocean swims, just beyond the breakers where the paparazzi couldn't see, when Rufus would wind his arms around Tseng's shoulders and demand he kiss him.

'To have a normal life free of all that, Midgar, my old man.'

Tseng laughs.

'What?' Rufus asks, peering up from behind sunglasses that probably cost more than some people made in half a year beneath the plate.

'The prince of the world, and his paid assassin lover having drinks by the pool. Rufus, there's nothing conceivably normal about this.'

Rufus shifts then, settling further into the chair. 'Hn, no. I suppose not.' And reaches a hand up to pull Tseng into a kiss.

It's like falling in love again, he thinks.

They fuck there in the midday sun, sheltered by palm trees, and privacy fencing, the sprawling beach marked 'Property of the Shinra Electric Power Company'. And when Rufus comes he cries Tseng's name, unbothered by the fear of discovery. He lays there in the afterglow, and thinks he could stay here forever.

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


Sixty-nine stories up, staring across the city he'd long missed, Rufus sighs. He wonders once more what it might be like to have been born into another life, knowing that the life he's lived is the only reason he has any of this. Normalcy for all its intangible allure is not for them. 

He turns away from the skyline, knowing he’s come too far to give this up. Power just out of reach.

Tseng will return for him soon. Perhaps an hour in simulation together would do them some good. He slots his shotgun with mastered materia. Tseng had been the one to teach him to shoot many years before, and he'd become quite proficient with a firearm even if he'd never had cause to use one. _A strong leader knows how to defend himself._ Tseng had advised him once, that while he would protect him with his very life, he could not rely that Tseng would always be there to do it. A Turk's line of work could be hazardous, even for him.

They trained here years ago, Tseng first showing Rufus how to handle a weapon, beginning with simple simulations, the lesser monsters in the slums, and Rufus, undaunted as ever, had chosen a shotgun. Tseng doubted then the Shinra heir would have been able to hold the gun, much less fire one. While Rufus Shinra certainly had sent men to their deaths, it was usually of a rather inadvertent manner, hands on killing was far more in Tseng’s line of work, in time with practice, Tseng’s tutelage, and no small amount of determination, Rufus had not only learned to adequately handle a shotgun, he was terrifyingly adept at doing so.

In simulation, Rufus preferred sentries, and robots, it made it all feel a bit less personal, though Reno had once quipped Rufus might have excelled far faster in those early days had they simply coded in a simulation of old President Shinra smoking his cigar. _That’s called treason, Reno, you’d do well to remember that._

Treason or not, Tseng considers now that perhaps Reno had been onto something. At least that might prove to be a less formidable situation than they’ve gotten themselves into.

‘Remind me again what these things do, Tseng.’ They’re pinned down by a new prototype, and neither had the foresight to equip lightning materia before the simulation, a rookie mistake. One, two, three blasts into the core of the mechanical monstrosity as a spray of energy rained past them. Rufus reloads, as Tseng levels his peacemaker and empties the clip.

‘There should be another energy blast in 5 seconds, Sir.’ Tseng advises, casting a barrier shield.

‘Delightful.’ Rufus fires again with deadly accuracy, staggering the machine. ‘Hit it with whatever you’ve got.’

Tseng’s technique is efficient, none of the flashy mechanics or theatrics that Rufus and Reno preferred, a spell here, a well timed shot there. Though Rufus knows Tseng often utilized a variety of skills in combat, gloved hands as much of a weapon as any Shinra issue peacemaker, and that he was also adept with a blade. But Tseng’s days actively in the field were increasingly uncommon, those tasks often delegated to Reno or Rude.

Nevertheless, these rare moments together in simulation kept his reflexes sharp, and Tseng finds that he cannot help but enjoy watching Rufus, considering what type of Turk he might have made under his guidance.

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


It’s a place in Sector 8, away from the blast zone, and fortunate to not have been affected. Tseng holds open the door to allow Rufus to pass, nothing suspect about a Turk accompanying the son of the most powerful man in the world. A few patrons linger even if it’s a bit past the lunch rush, though few give them any notice. Only the most elite and famous of Midgar could afford a table here, and with that price came certain discretions as well as expectations.

The bartender is a friend of Rude’s from his days before Shinra, renowned for his skills with a cocktail shaker. Half the drinks in Midgar he’s claimed to have invented, all inspired by the upper echelon, the writers, and performers who sought refuge inside of this place. A sanctuary with its dark polished marble floors, and wide arching windows, the soft lilt of piano music echoing off the vaulted ceilings. There’s even one named after the late Mrs Shinra, though Rufus suspects his mother never once patronized the establishment. Some story of how she’d come here, svelte curves encased in liquid charmeuse, platinum blonde hair cascading over one exquisitely lined blue eye. All laughter and smiles, glittering with diamonds, wrapped up in pure white fur. Socializing with her fellow stars late into the night, until an impeccably dressed man would come to join them, tipping the bar staff well, as they drank champagne and shared stories. And then they would dance, just the two of them to that same softly lilting piano music into the early hours.

The stuff of fairytales, a life he questions ever truly existed, or if it was the one written by the Shinra owned media, the love story between a silver screen actress and her billionaire husband. He thinks sometimes how different things might have been, before he was born, before the greed had consumed his father. Before his mother’s death.

They settle at a secluded table, and for a moment Rufus fancies it may have all been real. If so, were he and his father so very different? The thought nags at him, given power would that same madness and greed not consume him, as well. Would there be any chance of escape?

He looks up then to Tseng’s concerned gaze. ‘Sir?’

No need to dwell, especially as Tseng would tell him that he is not his father, that he will not make those same mistakes.

‘I won’t ask about earlier unless you’re comfortable.’

‘He keeps doing this knowing I’m never going to give him what he wants.’ Knows he does it out of pure spite. While Rufus certainly kept his private affairs his own, the old bastard would have to be blind not to know Rufus had little inclination toward the many beautiful and well connected young women that frequented Shinra social events. Thirty years old, and not a single attachment to a member of the fairer sex, his father _knew_. ‘It’s none of his business, anyway.’

Tseng makes a soft sound in agreement.

There’s a bottle of champagne for the table, something to start as they both peruse the menu. Rufus’ thoughts return to his father, how even if the man who allegedly loved Theodora Shinra existed, he might as well have died with her so little of that person remained. 

'You seem, if you'll forgive me, Sir, preoccupied.'

Rufus looks back to where Tseng peers at him over the leather bound menu. 'I've not slept well.' Not entirely an untruth. It felt foreign to be back in Midgar, the sounds of the city wafting upwards to his rooms so different from those of the shipyard in Junon, the waves breaking along the rocky coastline, but there had been an antipaction there, as well. The knowledge that he had returned home as he had been sent away, a conspirator. For all his resolve, it rested uneasily with him.

'You should rest before tonight.' Tseng suggests, assessing their surroundings for any prying eyes, before settling his hand against Rufus’, rarely prone to touching the Vice President publicly.

‘I was thinking of my mother.’ Rufus admits, light eyes fixated on the way the champagne bubbles in his coupe fizz, thinking of the sound of her laughter, the lilt of her voice singing jazz songs to him as a child. ‘She was made for these galas. Everyone adored her.’

‘She was an actress, you only need to be yourself, Rufus.’ Tseng might have smiled. ‘You try very hard to be unlikable.’

‘Hn, perhaps.’ He takes a sip of his champagne, lets the bubbles play across his tongue, and tries to envision how different his life might be in a world in which Theodora Shinra had lived.

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


Night settles over Midgar in a dusky green tinged mist, the evening’s light rain an effect of the mako slowly being eked out of the ruins of Reactor 1. Rufus is half dressed, frustratingly fidgeting with his cufflinks.  
  
‘Allow me, if you will, Sir.’ He reaches out to take Rufus’ wrist, hands are as deft performing menial tasks as they are firing a pistol.

Rufus doesn’t thank him, rarely does, but the small ghost of a smile upon his lips betray his gratitude, perhaps a bit amused that he alone can make a Turk dress him. Tseng has never uttered a word of protest, seeming to enjoy assisting the Vice President. It lends to a certain intimacy between the two, and Rufus has never minded being doted upon and told he is beautiful. Not the word many would use to call the heir, focusing on such descriptors as frigid, aloof, deadly, but Tseng sees a part of Rufus the world does not. Those half smiles, the look of guilt he gives when he’s been caught admiring his own reflection, the way he sighs Tseng’s name in the throes of passion.

Tseng helps Rufus into his white evening jacket, hands lingering on the slope of his shoulders, before smoothing down along the length of his arms to close around fragile wrists. His breath is warm against Rufus’ neck when he bows his head, lips brushing against soft skin and even softer golden hair. Rufus shudders beneath the touch and draws in a sharp breath because the desire, though ebbing and flowing, is constant.

‘Not now.’ The young man straightens with a jolt, posture going rigid.

Tseng allows his hands to slip from Rufus’ wrists and take two steps back, and the facade of Vice President and Turk slides seamlessly back in place, ‘Sir.’  
  
‘How does this look?’ Rufus asks, then. It’s a new suit, too formal for daily wear, but nevertheless something a bit more avant garde than the usual black tie fare. Lines sleek and angular, Tseng finds it suits him well. Not his style, preferring dark minimalist tailoring, but the blonde did possess a certain flair.

‘You’d wear it even if I didn’t approve.’  
  
‘Yes.’ He laughs a little then, something dark and entirely unpleasant. ‘But really, I only want one person’s disapproval. Claret pinstripes, Tseng. Who even?’

There’s the knife’s edge of a smile. ‘Who, indeed.’

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


The gala is a smaller affair than usual, held in the Shinra ballroom, the President for once showing discretion. In the wake of Sector 1 and 8, it would be impertinent to show excessive extravagance. The guest list a few hundred of Midgar’s upper echelon, the most elite, and respected, or valuable.

‘Look at all of them.’ Rufus hisses, light eyes surveying the space. Champagne cascades in a glittering fall over cut crystal coupe glasses etched with the Shinra emblem, a reminder to whom all the socialites and investors, arms dealers and politicians, owed their good fortune. Rufus finds it all rather distasteful in its garish opulence, but will play his role as dutiful son in this charade.

Tseng is a reassuring shadow at his back, the standard uniform switched out for a simple, elegantly tailored tuxedo, a discreet listening device in his ear the only sign that he is still on duty. Reno and Rude are running security, positioned at tactical vantage points, headsets tuned to Tseng’s device in the event of any disturbance.  
  
Shinra’s Director of Aerospace seems to be weaving his way through the throng toward Rufus. Of all his father’s lackeys, he found Palmer the most insufferable, and had rarely made any effort to conceal that disdain.

Rufus turns in the vain hope the man hasn’t actually seen him. ‘I need a drink.’

The champagne is a welcome distraction, and Rufus’ holds the coupe glass as if it might protect him as well as any barrier spell from the sycophants in attendance. Tseng is rarely taken to drinking at social gatherings, either on the clock, or too preoccupied with Rufus to lower his guard, but tonight he finds the shimmery lull of frosty champagne needed. The bombings were not over, AVALANCHE still a threat. He knows the following days may well prove to be extremely trying, with little time to recuperate. But there is something else there, lingering as an unsettling knot within his chest, as if some unseen threat, an unperceivable fear of anticipation lay before them on the horizon, the dawning of something inexorable in its horror and despair.  
  
Rufus’ eyes catch his and for a moment he knows his lover can see the doubt. 

‘What?’

Tseng shakes his head a little as if it is nothing, the simplest of dismissals. He won’t say he’s a superstitious man, but it feels like there may be a reckoning, that Shinra is on borrowed time, and with that Rufus. How many sins could they all commit before reparations were to be made. Instead he chooses banal concern. Something mundane in its predictability. ‘Stay close.’

He arches one elegant eyebrow. ‘Tseng, I wasn’t planning to socialize without you unless daddy orders it.’ His voice sounds as if he’s not entirely certain he father won’t. ‘You looked like it was something more, though.’ His words are hushed then, leaning in just close enough as to maintain appearances.

‘It’s nothing, only a small concern for your safety, Sir.’ But Tseng cannot shake that sense of unease, dark eyes intent on their surroundings now, every exit noted, knowing the layout of this ballroom like he knew Rufus’ apartment.

Rufus is about to press Tseng further, when he hears his father’s voice. The man unfashionably late to his own gala, a pretty blonde on his arm. Not a call girl, but he knows she’s been bought regardless, with gil and sparkling jewels. The bastard had too many girlfriends to remember, all barely older than Rufus himself. The least he could do is not try to make a mockery of Rufus’ mother’s memory by dating poor facsimiles of the late Theodora Shinra.  
  
A hush settles over the crowd, the President most surely intent on making some speech. He loved the sound of his own voice, a character flaw that Rufus wasn’t entirely devoid of. There’s the soft buzz of the microphone.  
  
Rufus rolls his eyes. The future of Midgar, safety and protection from Shinra. The same old bloviating, it’s all so tiresome. He hears his name, and looks up.

'My son has returned home. In these uncertain times, a father must look to his son, the future of our great company.' The words are pompously rehearsed. 'To my boy's return.' A glass raised in toast.

There's a thunderous clamouring of applause, as all turn to Rufus, a beacon of white amid a sea of black dinner jackets. His Turk at his side, too close to be considered entirely professional, light eyes narrowed in their barely concealed contempt.

' … his duties as Vice President are better suited here until we put an end to the terrorist organization AVALANCHE.'

The voice rises above the din, and for a moment he's all Rufus can see, vision tunneling on the form of his father, all false reassurance. The creeping hatred that had led him to act against the man finds itself, and settles as a low rage within him.

Tseng murmurs something into his ear, hand catching on his wrist, and Rufus turns for the barest of moments before the hideous realization dawns on him that all eyes are upon them now, his father's, his father's guests. That his involvement with his own bodyguard has suddenly become the worst kept secret in Shinra.

_Shit._

'I need some air.'

While there are no official company policies on interoffice relationships, being fucked by the man who oversaw Shinra’s personal spies was inadvisable. Don't sleep with your old man's head assassin, he'd thought years before, but the temptation had been too irresistible, the intrigue of it all, Tseng, a calculating enigma. He'd practically thrown himself at the Turk.

Rufus is hit by a blast of wind as he steps out onto the roof, Tseng only several steps behind him after Rufus had made his hasty retreat.

‘Rufus.’

Rufus makes it halfway to the ledge, before he stops. 'He saw. They all saw.'

'Does it matter? Half of them were drunk, and the rest well on their way.'

'What if he knows.' Rufus' voice sounds tired.

Tseng considers for a moment that perhaps the President has always known. The Turks weren't his only spies. And Tseng had repeatedly proven himself as loyal to the company even if that sometimes went against his own morals or wishes. 'If he does then he dismisses it as, if you'll forgive me sir, a meaningless fuck.' 

The President's own indiscretions were well known, the talk of tabloids, at least two illegitimate children, a string of paid off prostitutes, showgirls at the Honeybee, and no less than 6 verified in office harassment suits. 'He'd expect nothing more from you, as he's never given much thought to his own affairs.'

'I can't let my guard slip. He'll use it against me. Always has.'

Tseng knows there are cameras up here on the roof, but he also knows how to best have those tapes vanish without a trace.

When he kisses Rufus it has none of the usual passion, but is a reassurance of his loyalty and mutual affection. 'I cannot publicly care for you as I wish, but know that only my duty to your father's company prevents that. One day it will be yours.' Rufus will prove a formidable leader, though he worries still if he will be just.

When he withdraws, hand lingering on the small of Rufus' back, and against his chin, he regards him with something akin to pride that this beautiful and terrifying young man belongs to him.

'We should get back to the party before you're missed.'

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


They leave the party as soon as it is deemed proper, Rufus no longer having the patience. Tseng is right, everyone had been drinking, and if anyone saw, no one dared acknowledge it. His father had been strangely amiable, perhaps because of whatever his date had promised him. At least this is Rufus’ chosen narrative of the evening’s events, as if he thinks too long on the possibilities, the ramifications, he’ll drive himself mad.

'Leave them off.’ Rufus breathes when they enter his darkened apartment. They’ve both had a little too much to drink, just enough to make words come more easily this night.

'What if this was just a meaningless fuck?' Rufus asks as he slowly undoes his tie, discarded materia studded cufflinks clattering carelessly against the polished stone bar top. 'I know there have been others, Tseng.'

The Turk pauses, considers for a moment what Rufus is getting at. 'My job has sometimes required certain indiscretions.' In his line of work, he had taken various lovers. Some meaningful, most not. While not prone to disclosing the lurid details, he made no effort to conceal his proclivity.

'And if I was one such indiscretion.'

Tseng lifts a dark eyebrow at the statement. There had been very few as beautiful, men or women, and even fewer still who evoked within him the same longing or affection. 

'There's only ever been you.' Rufus continues. The admission is one Tseng has long suspected, Rufus too sheltered and too controlling, but he had never had cause to ask. 'Show me.'

'You're certain?'

Rufus liked all aspects of his personal life neat and tidy, if not predictable, easily manipulated. He enjoyed being dominated, held down in bed while Tseng wrapped gloved hands around his slender neck, a good vigorous fuck draped across his desk, and had on more than one occassion considered of the long elevator ride to the top the ideal location for a blow job, but these were situations in which he was still somewhat in control and despite the trust between them, he had never quite relinquished that. If he was to be tied up and ravished it was always on agreed upon terms.

'Yes. I want to know what it's like.' The hair on the back of his neck tingles at the anticipation. 'Others say you're dangerous, a professional bad guy, make me believe it.'

There is no hesitation as he grasps Rufus wrists, binding them with his discarded tie, blindfold a silken neck stock, faintly smelling of Tseng's cologne, sandalwood and musk. He shoves him against the bar, fingertips drifting along the curve of his spine. 

His movements are ungentle, but not without care. 'Tell me if this becomes too much.'

'Chocomog.'

Tseng stops dead. 'What?'

'My safe word.' Rufus laughs with an errant toss of his head. He feels Tseng smile against his neck, as he repeats the word.

He slides a finger inside, eliciting a sharp gasp. 'You've done this before?' Oh, so he's going this route with it. Rufus might have suspected his lover would turn this into some form of roleplay. He feels a sudden thrill of excitement.

Rufus shakes his head, feigning as if he's some inexperienced informant drawn in by the Turk's charm. A one night stand as payment.

A second finger, then third, stretching, preparing the tight ring of muscle.

'Do you trust me?'

'Is this part of the game?' He trusts Tseng wholly but. 'Yes. No. I'm not sure.' He thinks of himself as someone else, someone who's just met Tseng, offered him valuable information, and a proposition. No, he shouldn't trust him.

Tseng may have laughed a little. They're no good at this.

'I've heard you're paid assassins.' Rufus throws in for added flair Sometimes, yes, but more often than not the Turks dealt in blackmail, extortion, espionage. Professional problem solvers as it were.

'I should have gagged you, too.'

Tseng withdraws for a moment, and Rufus thinks he can hear the distinct sound of Tseng slipping on his leather gloves. He doesn’t have time to dwell on that before Tseng suddenly enters him in a slow thrust. Rufus does cry out then, a strangled noise against his bound hands. For all the familiarity, it feels foreign, bound and blindfolded, bent over and yielding. Tseng's demeanor almost dangerous, predatory, his movements calculated. He thinks of the games others play to get what they want. Bargaining off sexual favours instead of gil. He much preferred the latter, much easier to pay someone off than make them feel special, like they were the only person in Midgar.

Tseng sets the pace, thrusting into that tight heat, breath hot against his ear. There is no real affection, instead primal need as Tseng angles his hips and begins to fuck him in earnest. A gloved hand coils around Rufus’ neck, applying just enough pressure to be a threat. It is a game they played often, but there was a heightened edge of danger in this, as Rufus tries to imagine that Tseng is not his trusted lover and confidant. Rather than having sworn to protect him with his life, Tseng now must consider if he’s worth keeping alive. It sends a jolt through him that has nothing to do with the way each stroke of Tseng’s cock now brushes against that bundle of nerves inside that makes his vision go white.

Tseng’s grip tightens, as his free hand reaches around to take Rufus, working him toward release as his movements become erratic, hips flush against the curve of Rufus’ ass as his body goes rigid, muffling a cry against Rufus’ shoulder as he clutches at his lover’s throat.  
  
It is too much. He comes with a choked whine all over Tseng’s gloved hand, struggling to breathe as he rides out his orgasm.

They lay there together for a moment, pulses racing as Tseng unwinds his fingers from around Rufus’ neck. His lips find an ear, nuzzling the soft blonde hair that frames it, softly repeating Rufus’ name as if it were a mantra before slowly withdrawing. He pulls the blindfold off, revealing pupils blown wide, but otherwise Rufus' icy facade is in place. Tseng kisses him in earnest then. 'You could never be meaningless, not now.'

'Chocomog.' Rufus replies with a razor's edge smile.

Tseng kisses him then, holding his bound wrists. ‘You must know that I adore you.’

'Stop, Tseng. I'll have to break this off if you don't stop.'

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


They lay together in the darkness on the sofa, jazz lilting softly in the background intermingling with the sound of their shared breathes. There's a sadness about Rufus tonight, now that they're alone, passions sated. Tseng can feel it radiate off him as he threads his fingers through soft strands of gold.

'If we could, would you leave all this?' Rufus’ voice is barely above a whisper. ‘I was thinking of that summer.’ He had been so hostile and alone, and then … the memory of them together, for the first time free to do as they wished, no Midgar, no Shinra, no plots or conspiracies, just two people existing. It was a life not for them, he knows this, has always known this. ‘I’m not scared of anything any longer but fucking this up.’

Tseng says nothing, only holds him closer.

'You once told me there was nothing normal about this. Me and you.' He turns then, light eyes narrowed. 'I don't want normal. I want us, together, with Midgar at our fingertips.'

Rufus’ voice is low then, almost conspiratorial. ‘I’ve not been entirely honest with you, and I need us in this together.’ He capture’s Tseng’s gaze with his own, and questions if he can do this without him, if his Turk were to refuse, what then? 

'I need to show you something.' He slides from the sofa after a moment, slim form a ghostly apparition of white in his silk robe as he moves toward the shelves lining the far wall. There's the hiss as a discreet panel opens concealing a safe. Materia, gil, a few documents, and ...

Light glints off two coins in Rufus' hand. 'They're prototypes.’

Tseng’s thumb brushes along the etching. A New Era. They’re exquisite, expecting nothing less from Rufus Shinra. ‘Is this wise?’

Though Rufus looks a bit uncertain, his voice is resolute. 'You once told me to not let opportunity pass me by. AVALANCHE.’

'The bombings.'

'Weren't mine. But …'

'But what?' Tseng counters, wearing an expression nothing less of disapproving. 

'I may have supplied the override codes.' A young woman in AVALANCHE snooping around. It had been too easy.

Tseng closes his eyes for a moment, of all the possible scenarios. Rufus' ambition will be the death of them both, he knows it. Unlike his father, he isn't driven by greed, rather the allure of power long denied him. He should have known, the missing funds, the half truths, all of it would eventually culminate to this. And this time he would be powerless to save Rufus from himself.

'I need you by my side, Tseng. You, and Reno, Rude. I won't fail again. Not when the old bastard has made it so easy.' It hadn't meant to go this way. He was supposed to cause enough problems in Midgar for the old bastard to call him home, give him the opportunity to weave himself back into the hierarchy, to form a strong opposing force against the President and his board in time. 'We have allies, within Shinra.' There was dissent there. The mayor, Domino, and Tuesti from Urban Development. 'I never expected him to escalate matters. We need to act.'

'You helped bomb your own reactors.'

'I'm trying to stop him, before he blows us all to hell just to prove a point. You know that bomb didn't do that. He wants this.' It was supposed to have been a minor attack, something to give Rufus leverage. He never intended for this to be the outcome.

‘Do you know anything of power except that you wish it to be yours?’

‘I know not to abuse it the way he has.’

Tseng’s gaze darkens. ‘Do you, though? Truly? I thought we had agreed no more of this.' 

'I've waited and waited, I've played my role as you advised for years, powerless, locked away.' The moments of seeming freedom had been a cage. 'He'll never allow it. Maybe it's spite, maybe it's just that I'm his greatest failure …’ He stops then, considers that it may well be true. Perhaps in all of this, his father saw something inside him that no one else had, that he’d overlooked, some great flaw that would make him forever unfit to inherit.

He makes a decidedly petulant noise, moving away to stare out over the city. His city. Knows it's only a matter of time before he'll be sent away again, too great a threat to his father’s power to be allowed to stay here indefinitely. Fingertips brush along the cool glass, lingering for a moment on his own ghostly reflection, then beyond, to the streets below, lights twinkling up at him. Such a long way down to the plate. 'I thought once to fling myself off the side.' He remembers standing there on the landing, a boy of seventeen humiliated, suffering from years of neglect and calculated mental cruelty. It had rained that night leaving the rooftop a bit slippery, whitened knuckles clamped around the icy rail as he’d stepped closer to the edge. The young, beautiful, well educated heir of the Shinra fortune contemplating the fall, all he had to do was let go. 'How sensational the papers would have been. Perhaps he’d finally notice me.' He smiles then, a small wistful thing. It might have even looked like an accident.

Tseng looks stricken at the admission. Knows that his own fondness of Rufus has led them here. How much simpler it might have been had he not cared for him in a way that makes him question his every loyalty, his singular duty to Shinra. He had not been there then, too young himself to think of the President’s son as anything more than a spoiled brat given every luxury afforded him. Tseng would not know of the pain Rufus carried with him until years later, an inexperienced, sheltered young man in desperate need of a companion. It had been duty, nothing more, assigned to keep a watchful eye ensuring the President's son’s safety, as well as his obedience, to report any threats, to spy. He had never planned to fall for his charms, his subtle seduction.

Tseng breathes his name.

‘No child should want to die, Tseng. Yet it was all I thought about for years … until I learned I could best him.’ He turns away from his city, away from the very place he knows his father will destroy in his own narcissism, looks to Tseng there in the darkness, and pulls him close. 'Help me overthrow him.' Rufus breathes against Tseng's lips.

And Tseng thinks to that moment on the tarmac, Rufus pleading with him. He knows his refusal then had nearly destroyed them both. 'Promise me, you won't do this recklessly.' If Rufus were to fail once again, Tseng fears it would no longer be prison that awaits him.

'We can't afford the risk of failure, it's all or nothing.' He murmurs, knowing the consequences of their actions could bring ruin to them all. 'So I ask you, once more, could you live without this?'

'You weren't made to, Sir.' Tseng knows he’s already trapped within this silken web of treachery from which there was no escape.

‘Kiss me.’ Rufus demands, silver coins slipping from his hand.

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


There’s a second attack, this time at Reactor 5. Heidegger had gone to personally see to the end of the eco-terrorist organization known as AVALANCHE. The collateral fallout is not as disastrous as Sector 1, lending support to Rufus’ theory that his old man had intentionally escalated the previous damage. To what end, Tseng is not certain. There were still things within the corporation that slipped past Administrative Research, especially where Heidegger was involved.

Tseng peruses the report, Shinra's failure to apprehend the terrorists despite Heidegger’s efforts, debris had fallen into the Sector below, which brought about more delicate matters. The President ordering the retrieval of the Ancient. The young woman, Aerith Gainsborough, resided with her adoptive mother on the outskirts of the Sector 5 slums. She had been under the Turk’s surveillance for over a decade, and they shared a strained but familiar acquaintance. Tseng will not call it a friendship, but Midgar is made better by the knowledge that Aerith lived within it, finding the means to grow flowers in the deadened soil of the slums, to see the good in others, even a killer such as himself

Setting the report aside, Tseng squeezes his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.

‘Rough night?’ Reno supplies from where he’s decidedly not doing work, feet propped against the desk he shares with Rude, a mug that read ‘Midgar’s Best Dad’ that likely holds more than just coffee in one hand, while the other twirls a pen. 

‘You really shouldn’t let the boss see that mug, partner.’ Rude somehow has the ability to still look threatening while filling out spreadsheets.

‘Which one? The President, or Tseng’s?’

‘Reno.’ Rude warns.

‘Both.’ Tseng says, effectively ending that discussion before it digresses further. Reno enjoyed the way it got under his skin.

Reno takes a sip of his coffee, yes there’s definitely whiskey in that, and turns the mug around admiringly. ‘What’s the worst Rufus is going to do, hn?’

‘Remember, I’m the one who has to make amends for your indiscretions.’

‘Yeah, yeah. How is blondie anyway? Looked like he’d seen a ghost at the party.’  
  
‘The _Vice President_ is simply tired.’

Reno makes a sound at Rude, eyebrows raised suggestively behind unnaturally red spikes. ‘You wear him out?’

Tseng sighs then, drops his pen to the desk and stares at Reno. ‘What do you want me to do, submit a report?’

‘Nah, truth is, don’t know if I could ever look at him the same if I knew what he liked in bed. With you.’

‘Despite he being your friend, this isn’t Junon. He is your boss, as he is mine. In Midgar. Inside this building, inside this office. Is that clear, Reno?’ Tseng’s words come out more harshly than he’d intended, but his patience is worn thin, and it’s made worse by Reno’s incessant teasing.

Reno shrinks back into his desk chair a little, mouthing, _what the hell, man?_ to his partner.

Tseng straightens in his chair, breathing in a few even breathes to focus himself, to not think of how his lover and boss is currently plotting a coup that would compromise them all. When he finally speaks again, his tone is even, demeanor the usual icy calm, ‘Our orders are to retrieve the Ancient.’ He drums gloved fingers against the file, ‘With the Sector 5 bombing, the President with the advice of R&D wants to bring her in.’

The noise Reno makes is one of displeasure. He was never good at this kind of thing. Put a bullet into the back of the skull of some threat to Shinra, sure all in a day’s work, but civilians were another matter.

‘It’s for her safety, if that helps your conscience, Reno.’

‘Not really, boss.’ He wishes in that moment he’d forgone the coffee for straight liquor.

‘Reno, try the church. And Rude, if she’s not there, pay Mrs Gainsborough a visit. She’d probably like to know her daughter is safe.’ He offers tactfully.  
  
‘And you?’

‘I’m needed here. Something the President needs to discuss.’

They aren’t pleasant orders, but rarely they are. They are Turks, and Turks perform whatever tasks duty requires of them.

He waits until they leave before unlocking the bottom desk drawer. He thumbs through the contents, before withdrawing a file. Inside it are snippets of news reports, the Nibelheim incident, a few personal letters not for his eyes which he has never opened, and a single faded and creased photograph of a dark haired young man smiling too widely at the camera, arm slung around the shoulder of a pretty girl with large green eyes. Gloved fingertips linger on the photo for a moment, tracing over the face of the boy he had failed, then ghost along the girl’s. He determines he will not fail her, too.

>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


The Sector 7 plate.

The President and his board, with Heidegger in full agreement, they are to make an example out of AVALANCHE, to crush the terrorists without mercy, and all those who harbour them.

Tseng suspects the President never quite got over Rufus’ stunt with them years before, paying them off to assist him in staging a coup, destabilizing the Shinra hierarchy. Rufus had never believed in AVALANCHE, but what better way to keep yourself out of the crossfire than pit your enemies against each other. Unfortunately, the President's son had been too clever for his own good, and in that cleverness, he’d been careless, making a show of sacrificing the Turks for his goal, even if it had all been a farce, never doubting that his Turks, Tseng, might not emerge victorious.

It had been a miserable business.

_‘How am I to trust you, Sir? I am not your personal toy soldier to do with as you wish.’_

_‘It’s not like that. I never meant.’_

_‘Sir, if you please. You’re to be detained. Don’t make me force you.’_

_‘You expect me to take orders from you? Do you know what I’m capable of?’_

_‘Nothing. You’re nothing but a pretty face, and name that too many people fear because of your father. You’re just a child.’ He sees it now, beneath this facade of indifference, elegance, and power, Rufus Shinra is a petulant brat._

_‘You can’t tell me it didn’t mean something, you can’t take that back.’_

_Tseng stares at Rufus, still seething with the righteous anger he feels at the knowledge that he has been played, and knows that he will never escape this._

_‘I’ve killed for you.’ Dozens, likely. Some innocent, others less so. Those caught up in this scheme, oblivious to the fact that their anonymous benefactor was the son of the very man they sought to overthrow._

_Rufus at least possesses the dignity to look guilty._

_‘Did you think I would betray you? Or was it simpler to lie to me?’_

_‘At first I thought--’_

_‘You have no idea what you’ve done.’_

It is not until hours later that Rufus understands the gravity of his actions. Held inside a Turk interrogation room, Tseng tasked with getting information from the young man he had kissed and sworn to protect with his life less than a day before.

Rufus to his credit would have made an excellent Turk. He’s cuffed to the chair, not for any real reason except intimidation. He remains defiant to a fault. Tseng’s orders are to extract what he can from Rufus by whatever means.

‘Talk to me, Sir. Rufus.’ No matter the orders, he refuses to touch the man who had so very recently been his lover. ‘I can’t protect you if I don’t have some leverage.’

‘You think he’ll have me killed?’ There is no fear in the question, only genuine curiosity.

‘That is to be determined, Sir.’

Rufus tosses his head as if to sweep the hair from his eyes. ‘And if they are to be your orders.’

‘Sir. Don’t make this more difficult.’

‘Answer the question, Turk. If my old man ordered you to put a bullet in my head right now, would you?’

‘No.’ Tseng carefully reels in his own self control. ‘How can you even ask that?’

‘Then you’re weak.’ The words are like venom.

Tseng stalks across the room, needing to be out of close proximity while the Shinra heir goads him. He sighs, that this is what has become of them. Silence stretches between the two, and brings with it a chasm. 

‘Who are you trying to protect?’

‘You.’

In that moment Tseng is thankful that Rufus cannot see his face, expression fracturing. When he looks at Rufus there illuminated by a single light, head held high in defiance, there’s an ache in his chest that feels very much like grief.

He thinks what this might be like under different circumstances, were they not conspirator and interrogator, were there no imbalances of power. He questions his own loyalty, that had Rufus made him party to his schemes he may well have joined him, abandoning his duty to Shinra, to the President, and the Turks. Was one man worth following to such lengths even if it threatened the ruination of them both?

Rufus has betrayed any trust that may have existed between them. And still Tseng questions his singular duty for what is Midgar worth, if not Rufus Shinra.

He knows there’s surveillance in this room, but he falls to his knees before Rufus, forcing the young man to meet his gaze. ‘You have to give me something, Rufus. I won’t force you, but if you don’t they’ll send someone who will.’  
  
Rufus stares back, blue eyes nearly swallowed by black in this light. ‘Make sure they at least don’t touch my face.’

In the end, it is Heidegger. He backhands Rufus once, hard enough that he tastes blood. Tseng knows Rufus’ confession is a lie, but it is enough, his words both damning and exonerating. When it’s over, he’s taken to a safe house somewhere topside.

Tseng is stripped down to just his dress shirt and slacks. Jacket and tie discarded, peacemaker and shoulder holster slung carelessly over a chair. Even with all that has transpired between them these few short hours, Tseng does not consider Rufus to be any real threat, and the time for intimidation has since passed. It’s been a long day, too long, and Tseng longs for a drink and 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep. Rufus is hostile, wrapped up in his trenchcoat, lip bleeding, refusing to let Tseng so much as touch him.

Tseng sits with him in silence for a long while, both awaiting the President’s judgment. 

At last, Rufus speaks. ‘I wish it had been you … it wouldn’t have been so humiliating.’

Tseng has never raised a hand against a lover, but in that moment he doubts his actions. He had not considered Rufus might resent him more for allowing another to strike him. He knows Heidegger harboured a mutual dislike with the President’s son, the young man always deemed a threat to his own ambitions, and Rufus disdainful and impatient. The Director of Public Safety had likely hoped Rufus would not have been so forthcoming. But they had their names, Rufus Shinra’s confession. And now all that is left is to await sentencing.

‘Does it hurt terribly?’

‘No.’

Tseng knows it’s a lie, that Rufus is closing himself off, forming a chrysalis to mask his own failures, his defeat, and fears. He brings him aspirin and a glass of water. Rufus refuses the painkillers, and requests alcohol.

It’s late into the night when Tseng receives a call on his PHS from Heidegger, meting out Rufus’ sentence. Tseng’s expression betrays nothing. ‘Understood.’

‘What’s it to be, Turk?’ Rufus hisses, but there is no real vitriol in his words. Perhaps he is too exhausted by the day’s events to put up much of a fight.

‘Junon. He’s sending you to Junon.’

‘Not so bad.’

‘You’re to be held under house arrest, Sir.’

‘With my Turk’s protection.’

‘No. I’ve been promoted, Sir.’ Tseng tries not to notice how Rufus’ expression falls, the way the small light dims in those eyes. ‘You will go alone.’

The glass in his hand shatters against the floor, and if it were not for the sudden haunted pale look of defeat on Rufus’ face, Tseng considers he may have intentionally thrown it.

He needs Rufus to listen, to understand the severity of his actions, and the consequences they now have. ‘You are to be placed under house arrest in Junon effective tomorrow, Sir. Your personal effects will be transferred to that location. There are to be no guests outside of those vetted by the President--’

No parties, no social life, no power, no Midgar, no Tseng.

‘Don’t let him do this.’ In that moment, Rufus looks very young, the naivety of his position abundantly clear.

Tseng squeezes his eyes shut. He has a crushing headache that he needs to get under control before they continue this discussion. He goes to get water from the tap.

When he returns Rufus has his gun. Always with the theatrics. ‘Are you planning to shoot me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What would that solve, Sir?’ Tseng remains ever the pragmatist. Despite being only a few months older, dealing with Rufus is a bit like that of a petulant teenager. Stripped of his childhood at too young an age, then denied any power into adulthood, he simply never had the means to fully mature, and Tseng wishes to find a better word to describe him than maladjusted, but he is frustratingly incapable of not letting his rarely expressed feelings manifest in a manner that is anything short of histrionic. 

‘Well then maybe I should save the old bastard the trouble of imprisoning me.’

Safety flicked off, Tseng eyes him carefully. Rufus has always been erratic at the worst of times, reckless as if his own life is something to be toyed with or worse yet, thrown away. ‘Sir.’

‘He doesn’t have the fucking balls to do it. It’d ruin his charade. Can’t use your pretty son like a show dog if he’s dead.’ He shakes his head a little in self deprecation, thinking of how power had been so close, just barely out of reach. ‘That’s all I am. It’s all he’ll ever let me be. And now.’ For a moment struggling between anger and despair, teeth biting into his split lip hard enough to draw more blood. ‘I’m nothing.’

The punishment is particularly cruel, Tseng will later admit. There were many ways in which to have dealt with his son’s treachery; the President had chosen this one for the mental toll it would have.

‘Put the gun down.’

Rufus hesitates, considers pressing the muzzle beneath his chin.

‘Don’t harm yourself out of spite.’ _He will not care._ Tseng will not voice that particular sentiment, knowing that even now Rufus longs for his uncaring father to give a fuck whether he even exists.

The gun slips from Rufus’ grasp, Tseng taking it and moving it effectively out of reach, silently cursing his own carelessness in failing to realize that the greatest threat now was Rufus against himself.

‘How long?’ Rufus asks, then.

‘I don’t know, Sir.’ The particulars of his arrest had not been discussed. ‘I wouldn’t want to give you false hope.’

Rufus may have laughed, a choked, bitter sound of defeat.

‘It won’t be forever.’ 

Tseng shifts, shards of glass crunching beneath perfectly polished shoes. He’ll request for clean up tomorrow, everything neatly swept away like this entire dreadful episode had never taken place. As if they were not lovers, that he had not been the person tasked with this unfortunate business.  
  
Despite the lies, the way Rufus has acted without a single consideration, Tseng cannot stop caring. It would be easier to carve out a part of himself, an offering to the Shinra hierarchy. For all his anger, there is something more that makes this so very incomprehensible, an emotion he dares not give name, an affection that leaves him gutted and hollow. 

When he reaches out to thread their fingers together, knowing that whatever exists between them has irrevocably changed, and there will be no going back from today, Rufus refuses him. Hand snatched away as if the touch had burned him.

It hurts more than Tseng can admit, worse than the betrayal.

He tells him to get some sleep. Watches as Rufus eventually wraps himself up tightly in his coat and curls disdainfully away from him on the bed. He seems smaller there in the darkness, skin and hair and clothing ghostly pale as if a spectre sent to haunt him.

Years later Tseng will still regret that he did not go to him, that he had not settled beside Rufus and held him that night. He has many regrets of things left unsaid.

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


Rufus is seated at his desk, playfully wresting a small plush that had presumably once resembled a Sabotendour from Darkstar. She much preferred Junon’s coast to Rufus’ apartment in Midgar, and playtime had come with its own set of challenges, particularly wagging tails near priceless Wutaian vases, but as he still wasn’t allowed to venture far without the company of a Turk, they had to make do.

Tseng takes in the sight, unused to seeing Rufus this unguarded, knowing that he’s been tasked as always as being the bearer of unpleasant news.

Rufus looks up from behind the fall of light hair, a little surprised to see his lover returned so early. Chew toy relinquished, Rufus’ facade slips carefully back into place. ‘I heard about Sector 5.’

‘I’m assuming those codes were yours.’ Tseng’s look is one of disapproval.

‘I didn’t expect _this_.’

_When have you ever, Rufus?_ Tseng wants to sigh, to possibly berate him, because it’s happening again. And this time there will be no going back, that once again Rufus had not the foresight to understand the ramifications and consequences of his actions. That even the best laid plans could fail, especially when you were playing against a megalomaniac who would lay waste to everything to win. 

'I need you to promise me you won't move against the President, not until we can organize a plan.'

'What are you not telling me?'

'Your father intends to destroy the Sector 7 pillar. To stop the terrorists.'

'He can't be serious.' The response is one of exasperation, so accustomed to the destructive narcissism. He looks at Tseng then, his form a silhouette of angular lines against the late afternoon glare, deadly, imposing, and thinks for a moment that this is what his lover is. Behind the soft private smiles, he is a deadly predator. Materia slotted pistol hidden away beneath an impeccably tailored suit. 'You agreed to this?'

A sigh. Tseng looks away, unable to answer while facing Rufus' gaze. It feels a shameful thing, indeed, but AVALANCHE must be stopped, at all costs. 'Efforts are underway to evacuate the Sector. To minimize casualties.’ 

Tseng knows he wishes for their destruction for more personal reasons. If even a single one were to survive the collapse, what then? While Rufus had hidden his actions, buried deep within tertiary accounts, the suspicion would always lead back to him. Five years would never be enough to clear him of his past treachery. All it would take is one member of AVALANCHE talking and an investigation would be opened. It had been easy to pin the blame on that SOLDIER, a man who knew Shinra, knew reactors, but no matter how well Rufus has covered his tracks, it will not be good enough. ‘Do they know?’

‘What?’

‘Do they know it’s you, Rufus? Do any of them know anything that might compromise you?’

A small line of worry forms between Rufus’ brows, realizing why Tseng might go along with this plan. ‘No. I’ve been cautious. There’s no trail, I swear, Tseng.’

‘There’s always a trail.’

‘She doesn’t know who I am. They were just codes.’

Tseng tries not to sound too patronizing, but he is a Turk, and his job is to be cautiously thorough. There is no room for error, and for all of Rufus’ guidance, his lust for power often still clouded even his best judgment. ‘Can they be traced back to you?’

‘Engineering has them, Tuesti, Scarlet’s sleeping with cadets. It could be anyone.’

While true, Tseng knows where suspicions will first fall. This cannot go off poorly. If Rufus is to succeed in his plot, AVALANCHE must be crushed without mercy. Tseng questions in that moment if Rufus will be a suitable leader, or if he will bring about their ruin. He’s killed for Rufus before, but the stakes have never been so high, the casualties so disproportionate.

He swore an oath all those years ago to protect Shinra, he had never anticipated that would mean one man.

Tseng removes his pistol, checking the materia.

'You expect to see combat?'

'Not unless necessarily. I'm needed for surveillance, and retrieval.' Reno and Rude were there to do the dirty work, a task he is loathe to have delegated to them, but it had been his official orders. The Ancient had not been successfully recovered, and his expertise was needed. In truth, he wants Aerith safe, far away from the fallout, and within Shinra’s walls, he can only hope she will be.

'I don't think you need to be reminded to be careful.' Rufus’ hands linger on Tseng's shoulders, 'I can't risk losing you.' To anyone else it might sound like nothing more than discourse between the Vice President and Turk, but Tseng knows what he's getting at. The unspoken be safe, I love you, beneath his words.

Rufus leans down to close the barest of inches between them, taking Tseng's lips within his own. There's desperation there within his kiss.

'It's going to be a long night. Don't wait up.'

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


Rufus accepts that he has made this his obligation, no matter his intentions. If he is to lead Shinra, he must do so with a wisdom his father does not possess, a rationale, and tact. The bombings were intended to provide a diversion, but Tseng is correct in his assessment that Rufus had not taken into consideration that AVALANCHE had become a far greater force than the small upstart eco-terrorist organization he’d lended funds to years before. They were organized, well connected, protected by those residing within Sector 7.

He curses himself for his lack of foresight, blinded by ambition once more, and knows that he must do something to make this right. The plate collapse would be disastrous, a needless show of power. If he is to rule Midgar, he will not preside over its smouldering ruins. He must find a way to persuade his father into withdrawing his orders.

Scarlet's hovering at the President's side. The stench of cigar smoke mingles cloyingly with her perfume.

'We need to talk.' Rufus’ eyes narrow at her as she leans forward over his father, breasts brushing against the man's shoulder. The woman knew what she was doing, she dressed like she worked the street corner outside the Honeybee as if it were her own private joke, deadly and ruthless beneath the facade of a 2000 gil per hour call girl. She'd sent men to their deaths with little more than a wave of one perfectly manicured hand. 

'Leave.' Scarlet looks genuinely put off at the Vice President’s order, her red lips a twisted snarl of disgust. 

'You heard my boy.'

She scowls at the dismissal but knows better than to disobey it. Powerless or not, he is still a Shinra.

Rufus waits until Scarlet has left. 'You're dropping the plate? You have to know how that's going to reflect back on us.' His words are guarded, tone even. If he's going to get his father to listen to reason, the last thing he needs is a fight. 

The President scoffs, flips through a report on his desk as if it pertained to something of greater importance than the lives of thousands. 'I didn't bring you home so you could share your naive opinion on matters that don't concern you.'

'Midgar is my city as much as it is yours. Or will be.' He pauses a moment. 'Eventually.' Rufus has no time for threats, not now. Not when an entire Sector is at stake. The bombings were nothing in comparision to this.

'They're terrorists, and Shinra will not tolerate such willful mutiny.'

'And everyone else? Just drop the plate to stop a few disorganized anarchists.'

'What was it you used to say, about ruling through fear. I've decided to take your advice, boy.' 

Yes, he had said that. Of all the advice his old man could have taken over the years. ‘Offer a last minute reprieve, a goodwill gesture. The people of the slums won’t protect them forever.’ Given time, what few supporters they have would give them up to save themselves. The people need to be offered that option, to show Shinra as benevolent.

'You helped create this, or has your time away made you forgetful that they were your little project.’

_Were._ If only the bastard knew. 'We've all had our ambitions.'

The President smiles at the words, a dark, ugly thing that never reaches his eyes. 'Be mindful not to let them get you killed.'

He takes a few puffs off his cigar, smugly pleased, thinking to Scarlet’s words only minutes before. _I know when someone is fucking their boss's son. They might as well be doing it on your desk with how badly they're hiding it._ Another bit of ammunition to deploy against his son and this absurd request that Shinra show leniency against a terrorist organization. 'Your Turk is out there on the front lines. Don't you trust him?'

'Don't patronize me.'

'You'll end that.' He raises a finger at his son, eyes never leaving the report on his desk. Refusing to even grace him with a look. 'I've more pressing matters to concern myself with at the present, but I want that Turk out of your bed. Won't have my son acting like some Wall Market rentboy.'

'We'll see.'

'What was that? Stop muttering.'

Blue eyes narrow, focusing on the decorative letter opener on his father's desk. A meter out of reach and deadly sharp. The thought of shoving it into the space above that garish necktie. But it would solve nothing. If he kills him here and now without the support of his Turks, he’d be powerless.  
  
Tseng’s request that he not act, that they do this formally, together and unified, his Turks at his side. He draws in a breath and holds it there, accepting that he will need to play this role for a while longer. 

'Should head over to the glass if you don't want to miss the show.' Smoke curls its way toward Rufus like it’s been given corporal form, a manifestation of his father’s sins, seeking him out with spindly fingers. 

_Show._ He makes a soft sound of disgust at the indifference of it all as he crosses the room to peer out the expansive window. Rufus stands there, back turned to his father, staring out across the city that should have been his. The upper plate twinkles with pinpricks of electric lights, red, green, blue, white, each buzzing with mako power. There is a certain beauty in it all, the way the mako reactors set the city alight, the soft green glow an elusive comfort.

He thinks of the Turks. Of the absolute mess of it. 'Wait.'

A single, final plea.

The hideous groaning creak of the plate decoupling can be heard even up here, 70 stories high. Tseng is out there, Reno and Rude, too. Carrying out the orders of a destructive madman. Rufus stares out, unblinking and unflinching as the Sector 7 plate folds in on itself.

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


It's nearly dawn when Rufus hears the familiar sound of his apartment door opening. He's not slept, staring out the floor to ceiling windows that make up the east and south east walls, eyes intent on the smouldering ruins that once were Sector 7. It's unthinkable, like existing within some waking nightmare, no amount of PR or lies or propaganda is going to make this go away. The masses could be controlled but only to an extent, and sentiment toward Shinra in Sector 7 had been uneasy at best. With Sector 1, 8, and 5 also suffering casualties, and Wall Market flooded with refugees, the delicate balance is threatened.

He slams his fist against the glass in an uncommon display of anger. His father would destroy everything.

Rufus turns away at last from the city, looks at Tseng’s silhouette in the darkness. No words pass between them. Tseng's countenance bears the uncommon weight of weariness, hair slightly mussed from where he's run a gloved hand through it, eyes haunted.

He takes Rufus into his arms, burying his face into silken strands of blonde, breathing in his scent, and holds him.

>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


Morning in Midgar is an unflattering thing, skies a hazy grey, made even greyer still by the wreckage below.

For Rufus sleep had been elusive, full of restless dreams, and so he'd risen early. He’s on his 3rd cup of coffee, black, sitting curled on the foot of the bed, barely listening to the softly buzzing drone of rehearsed propaganda on TV. The official reports continued to pin the blame on Wutai, suggesting they were directly financing AVALANCHE.

The bastard wanted another war. Typical. War redirected the public eye, allowed a false sense of purpose, and national pride.

He sighs, turns to look at Tseng still quietly asleep, dark hair fanned out across stark white bed sheets, brow creased as if the previous night's episode haunted his dreams.

He knows this isn't what Tseng signed on for all those years ago. A young immigrant from Wutai, sold the Shinra lie of opportunity, a future he was otherwise denied, displaced between two worlds. What he knows of Tseng's past, it was not easy to prove his loyalty to Shinra, that he deserved a place above the plate, every effort he made doubly harder than those who'd been privileged enough to have been born a true citizen of Midgar. He had beat them at their own game, rose to the rank of leader of the Turks, and to some extent Rufus felt he'd kept a part of his soul, something few who tasted success ever did. But now …

He brushes an errant strand of hair away from Tseng's brow, leans forward to kiss the inky black mark etched there. 'I'm sorry.' It's an admission Rufus would never openly make. Yet here in the grey morning light, he let himself slip, to indulge in these unguarded moments where he can simply be a young man quite inexplicably in love.

Tseng awakens not a handful of breaths later. Rufus straightens, withdrawing into himself. 'I didn't want to wake you.' He smiles a little sadly, blonde hair tumbling across his eye as he leans forward once more to press a soft kiss to the corner of his lover’s mouth

'I shouldn't have overslept.'

'You were up till dawn.'

Tseng seems to consider this, taking in the dark shadows beneath his lover's eyes. 'As were you.' While they'd watched their share of sunrises together, it was often the result of more enjoyable pursuits. Ones that left Rufus languid in bed until well into the late morning hours. 

Tseng props himself up on one elbow, hand brushing along a silken sleeve, 'You should rest.'

'I'm worried that's soon to be a luxury no longer afforded to me.' He is tired in a way he's not experienced in years, thinks to the previous night, how differently things might have gone had he possessed even the smallest amount of power. 'I tried to stop it, you know. Or at least minimize the damage. No one's buying these reports. It's been too much lately.'

‘Reno and Rude had their orders.’

‘Yes, but what would I be if I didn’t try to save my city?’ The words came easily, it would be his now as surely as anything. And once it is, he will do anything to keep it.

‘One day you may not be able to.’

Rufus’ eyes narrow at the words, sliding away from where they rest together on the bed. ‘You don’t understand. You’ve never.’

Tseng knows this is true. His loyalty had been a job. A hired gun. But it had become something more, his Turks, the men and women he had followed, and those who followed him, became his duty. And their duty had been to Shinra. He never meant to fall for the young man he had been sent to spy on, to protect. Rufus is his singular purpose, and sole obsession; Midgar could melt into molten steel, and be left to ash.

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


They’ve been fucking for two weeks. A lapse in judgment, Tseng calls it. Rufus Shinra is an unneeded and unavoidable distraction. 

Rufus' lips are buried in Tseng's trousers as the Turk's breath hitches just barely, a gloved hand finding its way into strands of pale blonde and pulling. Rufus is anything but skilled, but his lack of experience is made up for in the way he bats his long eyelashes, and moans wantonly around Tseng's length. He takes him in deeper still, throat contracting causing Tseng to throw his head back against the glass, his dark eyes focusing on the metal grated ceiling.

Tseng lets out a strangled cry, his movements suddenly erratic as he sheaths himself completely in the hot, wet cavern of his lover's mouth, vision going white with his release. Rufus pulls off his length with a throaty moan moments before Tseng's hand flies up to halt the elevator doors. Breath ragged, eyes clouded with barely sated lust, he runs his hand along the curve of his lover's jaw, thumb tracing an ungentle line over nicely swollen lips.

When they kiss, Tseng tastes himself on his lover’s lips. It’s exactly twenty-one steps from the elevator to Rufus’ apartment. They stumble together, Rufus’ hands tangled in the dark fall of Tseng’s hair. The President is in a board meeting with a Junon weapon’s conglomerate for the next 3 hours, which leaves these upper halls abandoned. Tseng fumbles for the key card a moment, before the two fall inside.

They’ve hardly been able to keep their hands off one another since this began, duty and protocol all but forgotten each time Rufus looks at Tseng just so, or sighs a certain way. Reports left scattered across the floor, as Tseng fucks Rufus over his desk, the late nights where they found themselves braced against the glass, Rufus’ slender legs wrapped around his Turk's waist as Tseng takes him above the city skyline. Rufus speaks of Midgar when they fuck, and Tseng understands. They’re locked in a menage a trois, the heady seduction of power, the allure of it all, Rufus is a man obsessed.

It can never last, he thinks. It is only a matter of time before the attraction wanes, Rufus, the spoiled, bored rich son of the President, will tire of this game and take another more suitable lover.

But there is a vulnerability in Rufus Tseng has not accounted for. And he finds that behind closed doors, in private, Rufus is something more. Months of standing on protocol, never touching the Shinra heir unless to assist him into a suit coat or waiting limousine, had given way to guarded smiles, quiet conversation, Rufus making private jokes, his glacial facade fracturing to allow Tseng to see the fissures beneath. An unloved son, a hollowness left within him that no gil or finery will repair, but someone also strangely human.

Tseng feels an emotion that he dares not identify when his fingertips brush the small patch of exposed pale skin at Rufus’ wrist, the near savage need to protect this young man if only from himself, and his ambitions.

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


Rufus makes them coffee. He’s not good at it, but the fancy espresso machine in his rarely used kitchen is a gift from Reno, having tired of bringing the Vice President coffee from the employee lounge on the days his presence was required before noon.

Tseng doesn’t complain, seemingly pleased to have something strong and caffeinated even if the flavour is a bit bitter. It’s a small gesture, something that Rufus would do for no other, and Tseng cannot deny the private amusement at witnessing Rufus Shinra perform menial culinary tasks when he easily could make a single phone call and have the finest breakfast above the plate delivered on a mithril platter to his door.

He observes with dark eyes as Rufus fidgets with the silken hem of his robe, speculating just how many cups he’s consumed. ‘You should go back to bed.’

‘Can’t sleep, not with all this mess.’

‘Perhaps not, but you’ll be no good to anyone is you’re acting like you’re on Haste.’ Rufus glares at him but doesn’t put up a fight as Tseng pushes the coffee mug away. 

'We brought in the Ancient last night. Seems she happened upon our terrorists.'

'You don't sound pleased.' Rufus knows little about her, except Tseng seemed to have developed a bit of a fondness over the years. If he recalls, the orphaned daughter of a former Shinra scientist turned traitor. She'd spent time here once when Rufus had been barely more than a child. Had seen her on occasion when he'd wandered the lower floors. He can remember her smile, her sympathy as if she could see the pain inside the soul of a boy unable to fully identify it himself. The key to unlocking the fabled mako rich 'Promised Land'. If such a place truly existed.

'I don't know if I am.' She had come willingly, always the cheerful, considerate girl. It was his job, but he finds it all a bit distasteful and makes him uneasy in light of the previous night's events. The President was growing desperate. 

'Well, as long as someone keeps tabs on Hojo.' The man gives him the creeps, another addition to the carnival of characters his father surrounded himself with. Rufus much preferred the elegant efficiency of the Turks. 

Shinra's scientific research and development was the slimy underbelly of the corporation. Rufus had long avoided it. Whatever happened 4 floors below. Sometimes he swore he could hear screams traveling through the air ducts, howling inhuman cries, as a child it had been the thing of nightmares, over two decades later, and Rufus is acutely aware that it was no nightmare brought on by childish fears. Why his father allowed such research to go on within these walls is lost to him.

'Makes my skin crawl. You've seen those poor bastards.'

Tseng nods. As head of the Department of Administrative Research, he knew everything that Shinra did, from the mundane happenings of a corporate workplace to the ethically dubious.

‘It doesn’t make things easier.’

‘No.’

‘How the hell did she get involved with AVALANCHE?’

‘Rude and Reno encountered them yesterday afternoon. Said she was calling that SOLDIER her bodyguard.’

‘Hn, so he’s an errand boy?’

‘We’re not certain.’ Tseng does not divulge how something felt eerily familiar about the young man he had only seen across a video feed. There was something about his eyes. The Mako yes, but something more, how he reminded him of another young man whose life he could not save. He chooses not dwell, knowing well enough he likely perished in the collapse. Maybe in a way he’s failed him, as well.

‘So that’s it, then?’

‘Presumably. There is no reason to believe AVALANCHE survived.’

‘You have no confirmation.’

‘As of now, no.’ Tseng had not been there to witness the destruction, but there was little probability that anyone might have made it off the pillar in time.

Reno and Rude will need to debrief. He finds himself very reluctant to have that particular meeting.

'Get some rest. I'll do my best to make this not become your problem to fix.' He presses his lips to Rufus' temple. 'Let me know if you need us.'

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


There is a revolution forming, below the plate within the slums, and high inside this tower of glass and steel. Rufus plays them all save Tseng. He is not one to be fooled or bought; he is designed to be Rufus' right hand man, his lover and co-conspirator. Tseng rarely has considered himself an opportunist, preferring all plans carefully laid out, with no room for error, or miscalculation. Rufus possesses none of that same patience. And now, with power just barely out of reach, Rufus makes his move. 

It’s the simplest thing, a short phone call to Tseng’s work phone. Nothing out of the ordinary. The Turks had long been at his beck and call. Tseng meets with him alone first, behind the closed doors of his bedroom, voices hushed while Reno and Rude wait outside.

'Are you asking me to kill him?’

Rufus looks up from where he’s been fussing with a buckle on his sleeve, voice faltering as if considering in that moment what he is requesting of Tseng, of his Turks. 'I don't know.'

'He is your father, Rufus. I hate the bastard as much as you, but there's no coming back from this.'

Rufus runs a hand through silk fine hair. To commit patricide should be near unthinkable, and yet … 'Putting down a rabid animal.' He blinks, looks away. It is a hideous task, no matter his hatred for his father. 

Tseng catches Rufus’ wrist, gloved fingers wrapping firmly around his, forcing Rufus to meet his gaze. 'Can you bear that sin?'

'He'll kill us all if we don't.'

Tseng accepts this with a sigh, knowing that this is where they would always end up, only now he is a trusted equal in this conspiracy. ‘I accept your authority, Sir.’

‘Rufus.’

‘I want you with Reno and Rude. In the event this goes south.’ Tseng knows Rufus will forever be his singular weakness, having him safely outside of the building tonight removed any unnecessary distractions that might interfere with his duty. A half gloved hand lingers against Tseng’s cheek as light eyes stare into his. Rufus for the first time seems to understand the true gravity of this situation. If Tseng were to fail.

‘Leave through the main entrance. Rude will be waiting to take you to the vertiport.’

‘I’d rather stay.’

‘No.’ The word is final, Tseng rarely in the position of giving orders, save when it came to Rufus’ safety. ‘I need you out of the building, Sir. I’ll radio Reno when it’s safe.’

Tseng kneels then, lifting Rufus’ hand to his lips as if to swear his fealty. This is what he has been trained to do, years of loyalty to a young man he must believe will be a more formidable, and worthy leader. Rufus Shinra is not his father, Tseng has seen to that, making him ruthless, advising him to be tactful, guarded, likeable but threatening. Someone he will follow into the depths of Hell.

When they emerge a few minutes later, Rufus looks a little flushed, suit jacket slightly rumpled, and Reno can think of any number of reasons as to how that may have happened, none of them in any way innocent. Tseng lingers just a fraction too close at Rufus’ side to be considered entirely professional, and Reno finds he can hardly resist the urge to make a quip. Whatever clandestine things happen between two of them are definitely above his pay grade, and not at all something he wants to involve himself in.

‘Forgive me. Tseng and I needed to discuss matters privately.’

‘Looks like it was pretty private, Boss.’

Rufus gives Reno a look that could be considered deadly, were he not intimately familiar with that glare. And anyway, once Rufus Shinra stared you down with a custom made shotgun, boardroom threats and office glares were downright mundane.

'I need to know I have your utmost loyalty.' Rufus begins, demeanour professional, light eyes moving from Tseng, then Reno, then Rude, before flashing quickly back to Tseng, as if subconsciously needing to reaffirm his support. 'We're staging a coup. AVALANCHE is already inside the building. I've called back up.'

Rude makes a soft sound, as if this all seems a bit hasty.

‘A coup? Now?’ Reno gestures toward the window, the gaping smouldering wreck that lies below.

'He'll drop the entire plate to prove a point. Start another war. We can't allow that.' Rufus moves toward the glass, fingertips tracing along his reflection, his Turks at his side. ‘AVALANCHE will be a distraction. Keep Heidegger busy. I can’t have the fool interfering.’

'So you're using them?'

'The Vice President is trying to save us all.' Tseng interjects, moving bodily between Reno and Rufus as if to remind the redhead of where their loyalty lies.

'Sounds like a lot of betrayal, Boss.'

Rufus turns then, eyes narrowing on Reno. 'Possibly, but a few souls for a new era.'

'Your campaign speech?'

'Simply a sacrifice I'm willing to make. And anyway, it's not like they're without sin.' The reactor bombings, AVALANCHE knew that there would be lives lost, and did nothing. Rufus finds himself grudgingly admiring the lengths in which they would go. Perhaps in another time, they’d have made formidable Turks.

Reno looks to Tseng then, the way his leader stands there as if this is simply another routine day at the job. Knowing they’ve been played. ‘How long have you known?’ 

_Years._ For it has been years of watching and waiting, knowing Rufus’ plots, accepting that one day he would have to choose to follow his lover, betray Shinra, and hope that the man who he followed would prove to be worthy of his unwavering fealty. ‘Before Sector 7.’ The admission fills Tseng with a type of guilt, that he might have been capable of preventing its collapse, but there simply had not been enough time to properly act. ‘There’s no other option, Reno.’ If the President were to continue on unchecked, what then? 

‘I realize this puts you all in a very _unfortunate_ position, but I need your support. I need my Turks at my side. You, Rude, Tseng. You are my greatest weapon, and strongest allies.’ Rufus pauses then, thinking for a moment on the fact that these men were not only loyal to him because of duty, but out of friendship. ‘I don’t ask this of you lightly.’

It’s Rude who speaks first, a stoic shadow to Reno’s left, unreadable behind dark shades. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you’ve long been the one worth following, Boss.’ He looks to Reno then. ‘Isn’t that right, partner?’

‘Man, I still don’t like it. If your old man finds out.’

‘I’m prepared to deal with that.’ Tseng sounds as if it’s all a rather unpleasant but menial task, like emptying a waste bin, or tending to whatever unfortunate surprises Rufus’ dog sometimes left behind on that pristine marble tile. They all know Tseng is a killer, the most efficient of them all, as adept with his hands as he is a gun, but Reno wonders in that moment if even he is up for the task. Rufus’ old man. It’s not only the matter of him being President and their alleged boss, but he is the father of the man he knows Tseng is sleeping with. It makes things all rather complicated in a way he knows Tseng dislikes. 

‘Do I have your support?’ 

Reno thinks to the plate drop, the absolute madness of it all, the way that’s going to weigh on his conscience for years. Rufus is power hungry, petulant, vain, a little terrifying, and host to any number of neurosis, but. ‘Fuck it. Sure thing, Boss.’

Tseng stays after, dark eyes watching Rufus carefully as he goes about straightening his desk for the fourth time in the past twelve minutes. 

'You're absolutely certain?'

‘Yes. No. I don’t know, dammit.’ For all his planning, Rufus is nervous, and if Tseng looks too hard he might think his lover is wavering in his resolve. ‘I’ve waited for this moment for as long as I can remember.’ But now.

Tseng catches his chin, turning Rufus to look at him. ‘I will support you, follow you even to death, but I have to know this is what you want.’

‘He knows.’

‘What?’

Half gloved hands clutch at dark lapels, pulling Tseng in closer, as his lips brush against the shell of his Turk’s ear. ‘He ordered me to end this. I won’t.’ President and Turk be damned, he’ll rule Midgar with Tseng at his side. ‘I want it to be ours.’ He closes the barest of inches between them, mouth moving achingly across Tseng’s.

Tseng lifts Rufus then, pressing him against the surface of his desk, before working his way between Rufus’ spread thighs as he leans in to deepen the kiss, all tongue and teeth as he feels Rufus arch beneath him. His hands move against perfectly tailored white trousers.

‘Stop.’ Rufus is breathless, voice clouded with desire. ‘Not now. Not yet.’ His bare fingers thread their way into Tseng’s hair, holding him close as he wills his pulse to settle. ‘When this is over, when it’s ours.’

Rufus straightens, considering for a moment what he has asked of his lover. 'Try to not kill him, Tseng. But I want him terrified, if he's to live he has to fear me. He has to believe I'll do the one thing he's never had the fucking balls to do.'

‘As you command, Sir.’

A sliver of a smile plays upon Rufus’ lips as he releases his Turk, silken strands of ebony slipping through his hands. 'We'll see how he likes a prison.'

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


The 70th floor is deserted at this hour. President Shinra sits at his desk, a crystal tumbler in hand, cigar in the other. Alone. The sound of footsteps on polished marble draw his attention upward from where he's been staring at the security feed. The leader of the Turks stops just short of the desk, expression unreadable in the darkness.

'I don't recall requesting your presence, Tseng.' Smoke curls around the old man's face. They'll have to have this place deep cleaned, Tseng thinks, to rid the floor of the stench of burning tobacco.

'No Sir. I'm here on behalf of the Vice President. To deal with … shall we say, an obstacle.'

'What are you going on about, can't you see I'm busy?'

Tseng makes a sound as if this is all a bit tiresome, and with a tiny flick of his wrist casts a paralyzing spell, effectively immobilizing him. 'Now. That's better.' His movements sleek, feline in their graceful deadliness as he circles the desk, stalking his prey while counting the seconds before the spell dissipates. 'I'll save the speeches for the Vice President, but we in Administrative Research have deemed you unfit to lead Shinra.'

Three, two. 'What do you want?' The President snarls. 'I could have you killed for insubordination.'

'No, not quite, I'm afraid.' He levels his gun at the President, making a gesture toward the rooftop exit. 'Outside. If you please.' He'll shoot him here if he must, but for now he'll do this Rufus' way, ruling through fear. The President stumbles, backing away out onto the roof. The night air is humid even at this height, crackling with the metallic scent of ozone, as if it might rain. 

'You bastard, everything you are belongs to me.'

A single misstep. Tseng catches him by his wrist, saving him from plummeting 70 stories to his death. 'No Sir. It does not. I belong to no one but Rufus, Sir.' He leans in a bit, adding. 'But you already knew that.'

Panic is in those eyes, and Tseng is loathe to admit how much he's enjoying this. It's been too many years of silently watching the man abuse his power, and torment his son.

'Gil. I'll give you anything.' The President bargains, still the businessman even when facing his own death. 'You can go live out your lives together. Don't tell me you don't dream of that. A life free of this with my son.'

Tseng thinks to that summer four years before in Costa del Sol, a life of quiet anonymity, and knows it would never be enough, not for Rufus. And in time he also knows the old bastard would come for them. This transgression would not be forgotten. No, it must be this way. 'As tempting as that offer may be, this isn't personal. Well, maybe a little personal.' His grip slips just the slightest. 'Now, let's see how long you're able to hold on. Mr President.'

'You bastard. Help me.' He clings to the decorative scaffolding, and tries not to look to see what lies below. 'I order you, you'll never get away with this.'

Tseng turns, deaf to the pleas. He has more pressing matters to contend with. Let the man stare down his own mortality for a bit. 'A new era is dawning, Sir.'

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


An eerie gloom settles over the upper floors of the Shinra building, the air heavy with a certain palpability. It is whispered that a phantom had been seen this night, that one of Shinra’s greatest sins had risen from the grave, and descended upon the tower with the fury of an angel of vengeance, impaling the President of Shinra on his fabled blade.

They walk the floor alone, Rufus locked in a pensive silence, as if for all his father’s many wrongs, he might still observe a moment of remembrance. Tseng follows him close behind, keeping careful surveillance of their surroundings. 

Rufus at last speaks. 'My father.' The words are devoid of emotion, as his hand trails along the brass railing, fingertips barely brushing the cold metal, taking in what is now _his_.

'Yes.' Tseng will not speak insincere condolences. Rufus hated the man, and yet he was still his father. He'd long expected a bomb placed beneath the late President's car, or perhaps an assassin's bullet to be the man’s end. The old bastard deserved it. He'd been ready to kill the President himself if need be meer hours before. In all those scenarios, he'd not foreseen this. Tseng suspects Rufus will deal with this loss in time, but tonight, amid the chaos and unsettling calm, the young man hasn't had the time to process it.

There had been no blood, no wound. Strange for a man who had been stabbed clean through whatever might have been left of his blackened heart. Had the security footage not captured what had taken place on the 70th floor, one might think the old bastard had died from a stroke.

Rufus planned for a coup, but this development makes it as if such a coup never occurred. Those party to Rufus’ treason were either trusted allies or silenced. Reno and Rude had seen to the termination of those within AVALANCHE who had been called in as a diversion.

'If you'll forgive me, it was reckless, sir.' The way Tseng's gaze lingers, Rufus knows there will be a discussion later, or more aptly, a concerned reprimand, facing that Ex-SOLDIER alone. 'You have us.'

'And what type of man is that to follow, if I were to order my Turks to fight my battles. Regardless, I had a very attentive teacher.'

'You're not trained for active combat.'

The look Rufus shoots him would be deadly were anyone else on the receiving end. 'Could we please …'

'They will follow you.'

'Because they fear me.' 

'As they should.' 

Rufus runs his fingers through his hair a moment later. His tell. Annoyance, petulance, fear, all hidden beneath the gesture, left for Tseng to suss out the meaning. 'AVALANCHE?' 

'Will be dealt with.'

The sound he makes suggests this chase is all a bit tedious, 'We have bigger concerns than some cut rate eco-terrorists and an ex-SOLDIER. You know what he was.'

_Sephiroth._

Tseng remembers his destruction all too well. The incident at Nibleheim. The great General Sephiroth in a moment of madness had razed the village. He’d been called in to deal with the aftermath The place had been like a warzone, the stench of burning flesh, charred bodies huddled together as if the fire had swept through too quickly for some to even react. Others met their end upon the adamantine blade of Masamune. He had personally sealed the files, declaring the General’s death accidental.

He thinks now that they had never recovered a body.

Rufus moves as if in a trance, light eyes flitting about the gleaming marble columns, and expansive glass windows. In the shadows of this place, spirits swarmed, intangible dark spectres twining themselves about him, speaking in indiscernible whispers. 'What is all this?'

Tseng regards him with dark eyes, unsure of what his lover could possibly mean, scanning their surroundings for any abnormality. They are alone.

Rufus falters, turns to Tseng.

‘Is something wrong, Sir?’

He shoots Tseng a look of concern, and creeping apprehension. Nothing about tonight has been remotely normal. And he questions in that moment if perhaps they’ve unleashed something far more sinister. The chime of Tseng’s PHS breaks the tension between them.

Timing.

The spirits part as Rufus crosses the room. They’re gathering, swarming the tower in an inexorable force, wispy tendrils reaching out toward him. He looks down upon his city, and feels his pulse quicken, as if some primal fear has been awoken within him. Tseng’s words interrupt him from his thoughts, an order to bring in AVALANCHE. They had been there when the President was killed. As good a scapegoat as any. Midgar needn’t know about Sephiroth, it might cause a panic, topple the already delicate balance and complicate the transition of power.

Now that it is his, he will not readily let this new found power be called into question. 

A sickening jolt takes him as his fingertips ghost along the panel of glass.

He sees it. Midgar is in ruins, his city decimated. Buildings toppled, gutted, scattered about like a child’s building blocks. Ash falling from the heavens, blanketing what remains of the twisted wreckage.

Tseng choking on his own blood, a slash along his torso that no healing material can mend.

A brilliant flash of light on the horizon, and then nothingness.

He jerks away from the window as if the glass has turned molten. Looks to Tseng, eyes haunted.

‘Sir?’

He lets out the breath he’s been holding as he assures himself it is nothing, simply an insubstantial vision, but there is doubt there now, and something more that settles as a knot within his throat, choking him. 

Tseng says his name this time, suddenly more lover than Turk. Rufus’ behaviour has been rather … erratic. ‘Are you all right?’

He cannot rid himself of the sight, burnt against his retinas like some afterimage. Tseng, his city. Both lost to him. And he wants so desperately to tell him, even though it sounds like madness. Instead he shakes his head, effectively dismissing the concerns. Midgar is his, he cannot afford to show weakness.

  
  


>>\----------------------------------<<

  
  


A new day is dawning over Midgar, and with it a new era. Things will be different now, Rufus assures, seamlessly assimilating into the position of President, Tseng at his side, a reminder and threat to all those who had served his father in their own self interests who was now calling the shots.

'Mr President.' Tseng purrs darkly, and shoves him against the glass. His hands are under Rufus' jacket, and down his trousers, gripping at the hardness within. They'd dreamt of this contingency for years. Not ideal this outcome, but.

It was Rufus' now.

They leave tomorrow. With Sephiroth's return no one is safe. But for now they intend to make the most of this moment.

Tseng strips him of his coat, hand already winding around the silken grey tie at his neck as he drags Rufus down into a kiss. Rufus responds hungrily, mouth parting as teeth nip at Tseng's lower lip. Lips trail along the line of Tseng's jaw, as he breathes in his scent, leather, gunpowder, and expensive cologne. Jackets discarded, they both work to divest one another of their ties, silk sliding through slender fingers, buttons carefully undone despite their shared urgency.

They stand silhouetted against the skyline, hands exploring, as if relearning one another's bodies. Rufus is all sinewy strength beneath a deceptive fragility.

'You shouldn't hide beneath all those layers.'

'What? And share this with anyone but my most trusted adjutant?' There's a sliver of a smile. This is theirs alone. 

Tseng bears the scars of a few unfortunate missions gone awry, a small knife wound along his left shoulder, and another near his side, healed with the highest grade of materia leaving only faint silvery marks as reminders. Rufus never dwelt on them, preferring to believe his lover was invincible, but he kisses them now, reverently.

Tseng responds in kind, lavishing kisses along the curve of his neck, his collarbone, shoulder, lips trailing lower as if paying worship. He kneels, then, dark eyes lifted to gauge his lover, a quick kiss to his hip bone, before he takes Rufus into his mouth, reveling in the sharp intake of breath that escapes his lover's lips. 

'Tseng.' Slender fingers thread through dark hair, as his other hand braces against the glass. Oh, the sweet pleasure found between those lips, that wickedly talented tongue that sweeps along the underside of his length. He thrusts into Tseng’s mouth, movements restrained as if to not lose control. 'Wait.' The word is choked, the hand in Tseng's hair tenses.

Tseng withdraws. Eyes suddenly feral. 'Mr President?'

'Fuck.' Head resting against the glass, Rufus steels all his willpower to not come right then. He takes a few deep breaths to compose himself, before he's dragging Tseng to his feet. 'I need you inside.'

It's 4 meters to the bedroom, and Tseng considers for a moment taking him there on the floor.

Rufus brushes past him, slim form stalking into the bedroom as if going to some board meeting and not about to be fucked. He passes the bed with its down comforter, and crisp sheets washed a mako tinged green, as Tseng falls across it, dark hair cascading against the sheets, regarding Rufus with a look as he watches his lover prepare himself. He reaches out a hand to brush against Rufus' wrist.

'Wait.'

He does. Stretched out along the bed, hard and wanting.

Rufus settles on the bed, slick hands taking Tseng who bites back a noise at the touch. It had begun like this, all those years ago. An inexperienced young man admitting his desires, sexual preferences, fully expecting to be denied or worse yet scorned. And Tseng in his own trepidation, admitting the attraction had not been one-sided. He'd let Rufus touch him, knowing it was a dangerous game, and they’d fucked half clothed against the window staring out across the horizon. Tseng had never anticipated in that moment that it would eventually lead them here.

Rufus straddles his slim hips, lips caressing Tseng’s teasingly, and lowers himself onto his cock with a sigh. Tseng finds he can no longer hold back the gasp as he finds himself suddenly surrounded by his lover. 

Rufus meets his upward thrust as they settle into the oft practiced rhythm. No one can take this from them now. 'He called me a Wall Market whore, you know.'

Tseng rocks into him a bit harder then. 'That's rich coming from him.'

'Hn, yes. I suppose.'

'Bastard got what he deserved' Tseng is not a particularly vengeful man, and yet. 'I do thank him for giving me you.' He threads their fingers together, needing the added connection. 'It's yours.'

'Ours.' Rufus breathes against Tseng's lips, and the word sends a thrill through him that has nothing to do with the fact that he's buried inside that exquisitely yielding heat.

He swears, eyes locked on Rufus' stare, eyes fierce, a promise that Shinra was, indeed, theirs. He was nothing without his Turks, nothing without Tseng. They would rule Midgar together.

Rufus moves above him in a graceful sinuous line, movements unrestrained, as if for the first time free. He's saying his name, loudly enough that Tseng thinks the top 5 floors might hear them. Knows that it's likely Rufus' intention, to let them all know to whom he belongs. He has the Turks at his side, loyal, friends, and one in his bed.

Tseng shifts their position with the need to see Rufus pinned beneath him, driving into him with renewed force, one hand braced against the bed, the other trailing feather light touches downward along Rufus' chest. 'Mr President.' He delights in the knowledge that he owns the man who now owns the world, and angles his hips in a way that he knows will make Rufus come undone.

'I think that means you're supposed to be the one beneath me.' Rufus' breath is hot against his ear, body arching with want and desire to meet each thrust. They struggle for control for a moment, Tseng capturing his wrists and smiling darkly.

'You need to be held down and fucked, Sir. The sight of you splayed and writhing. What would they all say to see the most powerful man in the world coming undone on my cock.'

Rufus manages to look vaguely indignant at the suggestion, as if he isn't the one being thoroughly fucked.

'Mr President.' Tseng takes his time, enunciating each syllable with a particularly sharp thrust. Slender fingers wrap around Rufus’ cock, stroking in time with their movements, thumb tracing along the head eliciting a sharp gasp from his lover’s lips. Tseng smiles again as Rufus drags him into a heated kiss, tongues curling against one another. Rufus takes advantage of this distraction to free himself from Tseng’s hold, flipping them over in one fluid motion.

He withdraws from the kiss with a nip to Tseng’s lower lip, once again setting the pace, rising and falling as he impales himself onto Tseng’s length.

He looks glorious, triumphant in the half light, muscles taut and glistening with the sheen of their shared sweat. And Tseng thinks in that moment that he has never been more in love.

‘Mr President.’

‘Again.’

  
  
‘Mr President.’

He’s close and Tseng knows it, light eyes clouded with pleasure and the headiness of his new found power. Their pace becomes erratic, each stroke pounding against Rufus’ prostate as they chase their mutual release. Rufus seizes suddenly, but does not close his eyes, instead locking them on Tseng's as he rides out his orgasm with a harsh cry. Tseng follows moments after, rocking up into Rufus as the wave of pleasure crests and ebbs.

They fall together in a tangle of limbs. Rufus gasping against his collarbone, shuddering with the force of his release. Tseng holds him close in the afterglow, and smiles.

The minutes stretch between them, simply enjoying one another, their closeness and shared intimacy. It is a moment of respite, the future before them uncertain.

Tseng awakens alone a short while later, having drifted into a light sleep.

He finds Rufus standing there in the pale light of dawn, fingertips pressed against the glass.

'I'll do things differently.' The words are barely more than a whisper. _This time._ A shudder runs along his spine as if Death itself lingered nearby. He thinks of his city as an ashen wasteland, buildings crumpled, metal twisted, the catastrophic aftermath of a bomb, or an act of the gods. Tseng bloodied and dying somewhere in the ruins of a forgotten temple far from home, lost to him. A bright flash of energy, and then nothing.

He blinks and the ghostly vision is gone. Nothing but the horizon stretched beyond. 

Tseng wraps his arms around him, pulling him close as they stare out across Midgar together. His voice a familiar comfort.

'We both will, Sir.'

_Fin_

  
  
  



End file.
